


Omens.

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Guns, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Rating May Change, Vomiting, alcohol consumption, mentions of violence against animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:52:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere down the line something changed in Matt, and when Foggy sees the guy in the mask lying half dead on their apartment floorboards he wonders if he ever even knew who Matt Murdock really was. </p><p>A series of interconnected past/present narratives of Matt/Foggy. </p><p>(AU in which the Nelson's live on a farm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Assuming that the Marvel cinematic universe is in real time I have tried to keep to the most accurate dates as possible. I don't think the show gave us any indication about how long Foggy and Matt stayed at Landman and Zack but i'm guessing maybe a year. That means that up until 2014 they must have been studying. A law degree (plus law school) takes 6 years, meaning they were probably at university between 2008-2014. So those are the figures i'm working with.  
> (Edit: i was wrong about how long their degrees went for by 1 year lol sorry about that!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy go to an open air cinema with their fellow students as a celebration before the long weekend // you'd think living together would make it harder to keep secrets from each other...

**2009.**

**[Audio// The swell of the crowd. The swill.]**

Matt folds his arms tight to his chest as he struggles to keep pace with the slow moving group, “why are we doing this again?” he asks, shuffling his boots over the dry asphalt, little stones kicking up as he forcefully slows his walking speed.

“Because it’s fun!” Marci sings. She dances on the edge of the crowd, her movements bound by loose hanging fleece, slack around her waist and dropping to her ankles. A comfortable playsuit but two sizes too big. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a good movie or an _awful_ movie, and it doesn’t matter what you study or what dorm you’re from. It’s fun to all meet up at the park and watch a movie together, regardless of anything else. Plus it’s _free_!”

Foggy, with his blanket wrapped around his head like a cloak, swooshes it behind him as he speaks, “What movie’s showing again?”

“I don’t know, that’s part of the fun!” Marci says, scooting up beside Matt, “besides, it’s something you’ve got to experience at college. Amongst _other_ things,” she coos in Matt’s ear.

Foggy dashes over and throws his blanket over Marci and Matt, trapping them in his cocoon. Marci squeals and pushes her way out, leaving Matt huddling beside Foggy. The crowd swells outside, moving down the street and Foggy presses his forehead against Matt’s.

“We won’t stay out too late, okay? Got a bus to catch at 4am,” Foggy says. He presses a kiss on Matt’s forehead, then rips the blanket off Matt and wraps it around himself again. He scoops up Matt’s hand and they run the short distance to catch up to Marci.

Running against the bubbling crowd, Foggy’s hand warm and soft in his, he feels wild. The howls of the students, marching toward the show in a thicket of forest, in the middle of a concrete jungle. The misty night air slick on his face, on his lips. They catch up to Marci, she hasn’t gone far. Foggy lets go and begins engaging Marci in conversation about what exactly determines a good or a bad movie, and Matt walks behind them, their voices his guide to move forward. He tucks his hands under his arms as he walks, absorbing his surroundings. There’s something exhilarating about walking with the crowd of students, a mix of legal studies students, arts, medical, social sciences. They mingle in the crowd, breaking out of their cliques. The cathedral of St. John the Divine looms tall behind them, blocking the winds that rush down the streets.  And as they march down Morningside Drive to the adjacent park, some already drinking, already eating, the reward of a long weekend before them lights halos around their heads, tinged with mischief.

The pack moves down the street and into the park and Matt loves listening to the sea of students, waves of chatter and laughter and excitement about their journey. He floats in their energy, riding on the waves they create, warm on the surface. They pile down the thin stony paths toward the open air theatre, a low bass pounding from the speakers, vibrating the earth, calling to them. Ground is claimed with blankets and bodies and they huddle close, an inseparable herd. The outer line takes one for the team, holding the cold away from the group.

Matt trails Foggy and Marci to a spot on the slope and he sits down, huddling between them. Foggy drapes his blanket around Matt, leaving Marci to paw at the edges. She drops her head on Matt’s shoulder, “it’s better this year. They’ve got bigger speakers, more seating. They’ve even got stalls!” Sitting up she shouts over to Foggy, “hey you should go get us some hot chocolates!”

Foggy throws the blanket over his head, “ugh no, I don’t want to get up. I bet they’re overpriced anyway.”

Matt pushes off the slope, “I’ll pay.”

Marci cheers but Foggy, falling back on the grassy slope, complains, “my heater!”

The chill returns to Matt’s back. He flicks out his stick and on his way he hears Marci saying, “shouldn’t you go with him?”

Foggy shrugs it off, “he’ll be fine.”

Matt smiles and as he weaves his way through the throng of people, he follows the sound of frothing milk and gushing steam and the smell of chocolate and spices and that bitter coffee taste on his tongue. He traces the heartbeats from the employees to the customers, connects each standing person to who’s in the line and who’s not, and he finds a spot to wait in. The baristas are slow, mirroring the current of people caught in the river toward the theatre. They’re methodical and meticulous but they make their customers wait for perfection.

Matt shivers, retying his coat as if that would do anything. Behind him a hush falls over the crowd, the swell evening out, a flat line as each hold their breaths in anticipation. A short cheer bellows when they discover what movie is to play, a movie called _Up_ , and shushing commences to silence the talkative as the opening scene plays. Matt moves up in the line as some abandon hope of ever placing an order. A lack of dialogue prompts Matt to watch the movie through the collective. Awe and delight broken by heartbreak as the musical opening crosses over ten minutes.

Finally Matt gets to the stand and places his order for three hot chocolates, handing over the payment. He waits to the side, listens to the care the baristas take to blend dark cocoa into almond milk. The crowd remains enraptured by the film, captivating them in a moving envelope of silence, the great performance stunning each individual. He scans the crowd for Foggy and Marci and the first thing he notices is the hitch in Foggy’s heart, the sniff, the drip of tears. He notices it in Foggy first and as he pans out, he notices it in others too. Empathy becoming the best of them.

The absence of dialogue in the film is replaced by a beautiful score, the music enamours him and the tempo of it mirror the emotions of the crowd. He widens his stance, clutching onto his stick as he tries to breathe evenly, tries to take his attention away from the overwhelming sadness. The wave of the crowd becomes saturated in sea salt and he’s impervious to absorbing it all, the waves crashing on him, steady, calculated motions. The rupturing of a drain pipe, first a leak, then a great crack, and an unstoppable spill.

Cardboard bumps against his knuckles, startling him. He turns his hand and the barista pushes the cardboard carry tray into his palms. Clutching onto it, Matt rasps a thank you and stumbles back a step. He feels as if he’s dragging his feet through slosh on the way back to Foggy, the slope a swamp, murky and an awful stench rises from it, the tears of humans and nature clashing. He pants, moving through it all, but as he gets closer to Foggy the sadness slips away as the scene on the screen behind him changes. It lingers on him as he drops to his knees, his glasses falling off his face, droplets of milk jumping out of the slit in the lids of the cups.

Marci takes the tray out of Matt’s hands, “Matty are you okay?”

Matt swallows as Foggy pulls him between his legs, takes him in his arms. Matt clutches Foggy’s sweater, breathes against the starchy wool. Foggy reaches for Matt’s glasses and tucks them in his pocket, then smooths Matt’s hair, rubs his temples.

“What happened?” Foggy questions, voice hardened.

Matt can smell the tears on Foggy’s face, feel it on his own cheeks, nose wet but lips dry. He breathes heavily, says as confidently as he can, “nothing.”

Silence is shared between Foggy and Marci, a flicker of worry felt through muscle movements, bones shifting. He sucks in as much air as possible, and attempts to compose himself. He turns on his back, leaning against Foggy’s stomach. He listens to Foggy breathing, the sadness from the crowd washes away as they enjoy the rest of the film. But it lingers over Foggy, a thin veil of sorrow and concern. Matt tugs at the blanket’s corner flaps hanging over Foggy’s knees, tries to trap the heat in, then sticks his hand out over Foggy’s waist and clears his throat, “pass me a cup?”

Matt notes hesitation in Marci, then he hears thin cardboard of the cup scratching against the thicker cardboard teeth arranged in a circle as she lifts the cup out of the holder, passes it to Matt. He takes it to his chest and holds it with both hands, the heat of the milk bringing life to his cold fingers. He takes a sip.

“It’s not that bad,” he chokes out, coughing and spluttering.

Marci laughs and takes a sip herself, “I had my doubts but it’s actually pretty good! Foggybear, you should have yours.”

Foggy reaches over to snag the last cup out of the holder and sniffs it. He makes a disgusted noise and says, “I’ve always been a cow’s milk kind of guy,” and he squashes it back into the holder. He settles back against the slope, holding Matt between his legs.

“You know what Foggybear,” Marci begins, rubbing her hands around the cup, “I can’t wrap my head around you being a farm hand. I just can’t picture you getting up at the crack of dawn to go out and milk the cows,” she giggles.

Foggy sits up a bit, “okay, when I said my parents live on a farm, I mean to say that our house is literally on a farm. We don’t own it, our neighbour does. And it’s not livestock, it’s just crops.”

“So you haven’t done any typical farm boy stuff like herding sheep or hauling hay bales?” Marci presses.

“Again, just crops. Besides, there’s machinery for almost all jobs. I’ve driven haulers and tractors a bit but I was pretty much a jerk when I was younger, I didn’t like working and I missed living with my Mom in the city.”

Matt sits up, turning around, “your parents are separated?”

“Yeah they divorced when I was four,” Foggy rushes, flustered, “but can we please stop talking about me I’m missing the movie here guys.”

“Yeah _Matt_ , stop investigating Foggy while we’re watching a cute movie,” Marci retorts through chattering teeth.

Matt shakes his head and returns to his position between Foggy’s legs, soaking in the warmth. He sips on his hot chocolate, feeling a swell in his stomach. The crowd dripping down the slope starts to bubble again, similar excitement from before but as the film continues to a climactic scene, it feels as if a rocket has set alight right there in front of him. An eruption of glee, of happiness, of awe.

Marci stands up during the rush, her excitement overcome by the cold and she rubs her arms as she speaks, “I’m going to go nab a blanket off a babe since you suckers won’t share.”

Foggy calls after her, “Marci! You’re missing the best part!”

“What’s happening?” Matt asks.

“They just tied a million balloons to a house and it’s flying.”

“Does that actually work?” Matt muses.

Foggy laughs, “no, it’s CGI dude,” he then places his hands on Matt’s shoulders, “you gonna tell me what that was before?”

Matt tenses, teething the protruding lip of the cup.

“Did someone bully you?” Foggy questions, hands tight over his shoulders.

Matt flinches away from Foggy’s touch, offended, “no I can handle myself Foggy.”

“Then what happened?” Foggy asks. He tries to shift around Matt, to see his face but Matt presses his weight back on Foggy making it difficult to move, “turn around, I can’t see your face.”

“Neither can I,” Matt says.

Foggy sighs, “Matt, I’m just worried. If there’s something going on you need to tell me.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Matt huffs, but he knows Foggy won’t leave him alone so he continues with a semi-truth, “when I was waiting for the drinks a girl in the line told me what was happening in the movie.”

“Hey that’s my job! I should definitely be worried about this girl being able to describe a movie so well that the _description_ makes you weep. That is some skill.”

Matt laughs and this time he turns around, kneeling in-between Foggy’s legs, “you’re not that bad.”

“And that’s all it was?”

“That’s all it was,” Matt confirms.

“Okay,” Foggy breathes. He hooks Matt’s chin with his thumb and draws him in for a brief kiss, “I thought something horrible had happened to you.”

Matt hears the choke in Foggy’s voice and he crawls forward, lying Foggy down on the slope, the blanket falling to the side. He clambers over him, trailing his fingers up Foggy’s neck, over his jawline and he catches Foggy’s lips in his. Foggy moans and he feels cold hands at his waist, curving down to grab his ass.

From somewhere further down in the crowd he hears Marci shout out in a fake accent, “have some sense for public decency!”

Even in his darkness Matt can feel when all eyes are on him. Someone wolf whistles as Foggy scrambles to sit up, Matt sitting beside him. Foggy lifts the blanket over them both, laughing, “she just _loves_ to torture us.”

 

    **2014.**

**[Video// Fluctuations.]**

Foggy had thought quitting Landman and Zack was going to be good for Matt, for the both of them. Ever since they found a place in the inner city and entered the workforce, Matt had been more agitated than ever. He always was though, as long as Foggy had known him. But over the years he’d gotten worse. Neither of them were enjoying interning, working for a corporation just wasn’t their thing. So quitting, at least for Foggy, was a huge relief. But Matt didn’t seem any better.

Foggy lies on his side in bed, running his hands over Matt’s bare back. Matt still cries in his sleep, wakes up with a damp pillow. Matt tries to hide it in the morning, every time he thinks he can hide it from Foggy which makes Foggy realize just how out of it Matt is when he sleeps. How deep he is in dreams that he doesn’t wake up when he cries. It’s worse since quitting their internship because now they’re stuck between trying to find the perfect office to rent and start their own practice, and not having much to do during the days. He thinks Matt must get bored and reads too much news. All over the world there’s always bad stuff going on, natural disasters destroying homes, man-made disasters keeping the impoverished in check. There’s always something to be sad about because the world fucking sucks, people die every second, but people are born too. And Foggy has to keep reminding Matt that he’s got a life to live, he doesn’t have to spend all his time worrying about every single soul on the planet.

He rubs Matt’s back and he’s been expecting the tears, the heart-wrenching sobbing that always tears Foggy out of his sleep. He’s grown accustomed to it and it should start any second. Except it doesn’t. Matt sleeps soundly, undisturbed by his subconscious reminding him of the evil in the world. Foggy blinks, freezing. Perhaps he’s the one dreaming.

Matt suddenly sits up in bed as if he’d burnt himself, a quick alert, sitting up straight. Foggy gasps out of fright, startled by the movement, “Matt, are you okay?”

Matt speaks over him, “Foggy I need to go out.”

There’s a sense of urgency in Matt’s voice that scares Foggy. He touches Matt’s shoulder blade, mutters out loud, “is he sleep walking?”

Matt turns to him, “I’m not. I have to go.”

Foggy retracts his arm, “go where?”

“Out,” Matt states, pushing off the bed.

Foggy speaks louder, “Matt, it’s late. Can’t it wait til the morning?”

Matt pulls on his trousers and slings a long sleeved shirt over his head, “no, I have to go right now,” he pauses by the bed, one hand on the mattress, his voice cracks but the haste seeps through, “Foggy, I’m sorry but I have to do this.”

“Do _what_?” Foggy cries, but Matt doesn’t reply.

Matt leaves and Foggy hears the stomps up the staircase, the clang of the rooftop door close and his head spins. The warmth of Matt beside him is replaced by the trail of a ghost, icy and empty. He touches Matt’s pillow, feels for the dampness, an absence. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy catch the early bird bus to the Nelson's farm // Foggy loves Matt but he can't bear to look anymore.

**2009.**

**[Video// The house on fire.]**

Foggy sits on the aisle seat, rubs Matt’s back as he leans his forehead on the seat in front. The sun’s not yet risen and Foggy catches glimpses of trees reflected in the glass. They look like people in the misty night, like ghosts drifting, lost. A refraction of light, of morning darkness, a tree trunk flickering up the vertical glass and fading in milliseconds as the bus passes. He swallows, listening to Matt weep softly, the little circle of air conditioning above them failing. At a certain angle in the glass he sees his own face, dark bags under his bloodshot eyes and he has to look away.

Matt throws up in a paper bag, his back shuddering. Foggy takes the bag from him when Matt offers it to him, rubs his back, two thin lines either side his spine, gentle swirling outwards. Matt gasps, leans back in his chair and settles. Foggy ties the bag off as he gets up, moves in calculated sways down the aisle to the front of the bus. He disposes of the sickness in the front bin much to the bus driver’s dismay and collects a new sick bag.

“Think you boys should take the teacher’s spot,” the bus driver says gruffly, nodding at the two spare seats right at the front of the bus, “air con’s good there, best fresh air you’re gonna get for three hours.”

Foggy nods and looks back up the aisle, a ghost white face in a sea of sleeping passengers. He returns to Matt and coaxes him out, takes it one step at a time. The bus begins to take the mountain route, breaking off a three lane highway down to single lanes, both ways. They take a seat at the front and as the air blows over them, their ears begin to pop. Matt moans and Foggy feels entirely helpless, holding his hand, rubbing his back. He watches the road, trucks roar down the opposite side of the mountain road. At first the only sign of them is a floating rectangle, dotted red lights outline a seemingly hollow shape streamlining across the mountainside. Then, only metres away, the rectangle materialises into a freight truck, barging down the single lane road, a game of chick if you’re tired and swaying. Foggy’s toes curl every time it happens. Anxious for the driver, like he wishes he could take control, swing the wheel off to the right. Loose gravel kicking under the wheels, toppling the bus over. They’d all regret not wearing the provided seatbelts.

Matt guzzles water and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. He clutches for Foggy’s hand, holds it tight against his chest, heaving, trying not to retch, “I hate this.”

Foggy lets Matt squeeze his hand, “I know.”

Matt gulps, tears welling around his eyes, “This is Marci’s fault.”

“The homemade ice cream?” Foggy begins. After the movie Marci had somehow rounded up an enormous group of people, twofold the amount of students occupying their dormitory, and had marched them back to their dormitory promising ice cream. Why anyone wanted ice cream in the middle of a cold night he had no idea. But people seemed to really go for it. She got everyone in their tiny kitchenette and passed around a bag of mixture wrapped in a giant bag of salt and ice and somehow, after a lot of passing around and shaking, the mixture turned into ice cream. It was magical and delicious and Foggy doesn’t want to believe it’s what’s made Matt sick. “I had some too and I’m not sick. I think it’s that weird hot chocolate,” Foggy says.

Matt leans his head against the head rest, still clutching Foggy’s hand. He clenches his teeth, holding his stomach with his other hand and Foggy can tell he’s trying so hard to stay composed, to keep himself together.

“Probably didn’t help that we stayed up all night,” Foggy says, rubbing Matt’s thigh with his free hand.

“Yeah but—” Matt swallows hard, gasping, and it instantly reminded Foggy of just hours before, Matt sprawled out on his bed, gasping and clawing at Foggy as he fucked him., “—that was really _fun_.”

Foggy laughs, and he kicks his feet up on the barricade dividing the start of the seats of the bus from the stairwell. This earns him a sharp look from the bus driver and he drops his feet to the floor.

“I just want to get out and run to your house myself,” Matt sighs, sinking down in the chair, his knees bumping against the barricade.

Foggy glances at the bus driver but she unflinchingly remains focused on the road before her, “hitch hiking is probably our best bet. I’m not exactly equipped for a three day’s walk.”

“You think it’ll take three days?”

“Yeah dude, probably even longer. We’re hours away and we still have to drive through the fucking mountains,” Foggy watches Matt purse his lips and he continues, “one day we’ll hitch hike across the states. We’ll ride on the back of freight trains like they do in the movies.”

“And eat out of dumpsters?” Matt jokes.

“Living the life!”

Matt laughs and he shifts in his seat, twisting his body so he can lie his head in Foggy’s lap. Foggy combs Matt’s hair with his fingers, softly massaging Matt’s scalp as he does so. Soon Matt falls asleep, leaving Foggy to stare out the large windows in front of him. The steep hills banking the single lane road lower, flattening out as the bus reaches the plateau. The sun’s rays are only just peeping over the horizon, the sky fading from a deathly blue, steadily paler.

Up ahead he spots a glow. There’s something off about it, it’s not a deep red like that of the cargo trucks, but a yellowish orange, a hot spot in the misty morning. As the bus powers down the road, breaking through the clouds hanging low, the dot enlarges. Soon Foggy makes out movement, orange flickering and he stares at it until it focuses. Blue and red lights flash then, repeatedly, like traffic lights on a motorway. Closer and closer, he realizes it’s a house, engulfed in fire. The blue and red lights flash from fire engines and as the bus swerves around the engine generously parked on the road, Foggy sees the smoke slicing through the mist. The water gushing from hoses barely making a mark on the ferocity of the fire. The bus passes it and he cranes his neck to see out the side windows, trains his eye on it as the road bends out toward the double lane highway.

His ears pop just as the dot drops off the pink horizon, and he gets a sick feeling in his stomach. He sits forward again, blinking through the blue ahead but the house on fire flickers in his mind, his stomach churning, and he hopes he’s just got whatever Matt has.

 

    **2015.**  

**[Video// Two panes a stained brown.]**

Foggy takes Matt to bed but he can’t bear to look. Matt never sees but he _looks_ , through his lips, his touch, he pays attention to Foggy and usually he can see it in him. See the work, and the ease and care Matt takes towards him. Matt takes his time, every time, because it’s not a game of who can finish the quickest. It’s an experience, a task which requires willed focus and tender caution. Skin flushed against skin, Foggy takes Matt inside him and in this time they’re meant to be all that’s left, two humans making love.

Except when Foggy opens his eyes Matt’s distant, a tired laboured man, like making love is a chore. Foggy’s filled by Matt, bursting, but he’s unfulfilled, he’s split, that pop of a balloon and that elongated sigh, relief versus deflation. And no one’s there scrambling to plug it up, to stop the air escaping and breathe life back into it. It simply breaks. Repairs futile at this stage. And as the theory goes, he’ll stop asking for it and it’ll stop coming. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch during a storm // Battle of New York.
> 
> "First there were floods, then a mouse plague, then a snake infestation! Biblical shit, i'm telling you."
> 
> "Hey watch your mouth, there's a Catholic in our presence."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so as i was finishing off writing 'Play Your Cards..." i did further research and i found that Foggy does actually have a canon family? I haven't read the comics so i've given them my own characterisation...

**2009.**

**[Audio// The calm of the storm.]**

The rumble of the bus fades when it joins the highway, diluted by the road traffic. Matt sits beside Foggy on an old wooden bench outside of a seldom used train station, their luggage tucked around their feet. He’d slept a bit on the bus, just a few hours until Foggy had woken him up for their stop. He feels better now, still groggy but not so much like he wants to throw up all over the place.

Foggy taps his leg impatiently, Matt feels the slight vibrations through the rusted metal holding the bench together, it creaks under their weight and Matt’s prepared to leap off at any second. Everything smells rotten around him, not in the way flesh or food rots, but in the way, over time, rain weakens the strength of the sleepers on the train tracks, the way the sun strips away the coating over the steel tracks and the way a man-made structure collects dust as it’s use becomes a minimum.

Foggy flips open his phone and slaps it shut again, then groans, “ugh Dad should be here by now. They complain that I don’t communicate enough to them when they can’t even understand simple instructions.”

Down the smaller streets that span from the old train station, Matt picks up on a thundering engine, fuel blasting through pumps, off-road tires slamming over dirt roads. “He’ll be here soon.”

“I hope so, I’m so _hungry_!” Foggy shouts, clutching his stomach. His voice bounces off the bricks of the station structure, catches in the corrugated iron awnings arching over the platform.

“What’s his name?”

“Edward.”

“And your… step mother?”

“Anna,” Foggy says, then he jumps to his feet as he spots something in the distance, “Oh there he is! Oh… he brought the truck.”

 

A single cushioned seat runs from door to door and Matt, being the leanest, sits in the middle, his legs either side of the gear stick. He grips onto the dashboard as the truck rumbles across the dirt roads that weave up towards the farm.

“Why didn’t you bring the Volvo?” Foggy shouts over the engine after having barely exchanged any words with his father at all.

“The girls took it. We’re going to have lunch with the storm,” Edward calls out gruffly, gripping the steering wheel.

“The storm?” Matt repeats, but he speaks too quietly, his words lost under the tremendous rattle of the truck.

“What, now?” Foggy shouts back, “I’d like to have a shower first.”

“You need it, but we don’t have time. We’re already late.”

Foggy grumbles and folds his arms over his growling stomach. It’s a bit of a drive back to the farm, weaving in and out of dirt roads. Edward slows right down for the last stretch, pulling sharp turns. Matt listens to the way the wind circulates outside the window and he guesses that the road trails through a thicket of forest. Foggy winds the passenger seat window right down and drops his arm out. Matt can feel the sun on his legs, speckled through the leaves of the trees. The sickness in his stomach has almost completely subsided now despite their rocky journey.

The truck comes to a stop and Edward steps out of the truck, pushing the door shut behind him. Foggy slides out his side, followed by Matt. He barely gets his feet on the ground before he hears footsteps running toward them.

Someone embraces Foggy and Matt holds onto the car door as Foggy swings them around. He closes the door and Foggy props them on the ground again.

“Foggy! I’ve missed you so much!” A girl says in a husky voice. She hugs Foggy again, then lets go and turns toward him, “you must be Matt!” She wraps her arms around him tight, but only briefly, then steps back and nudges Foggy, “fuck how’d he end up with you, he’s so handsome!”

“Yeah thanks Candace. Real confidence booster,” Foggy mutters.

“Come on, we need to get in,” Edward coaxes from the front of the truck.

Foggy slips his hand around Matt’s and Candace squeals, “it’s the real deal huh Foggy?”

“Yup,” Foggy says dryly but Matt can hear the smile cracking through.

As they walk toward the house, Matt thumbs the top of Foggy’s hand, “you kind of forgot to mention you had a sister.”

Foggy bites his lip, “it’s not like I’m being secretive, you’ve just never asked.”

Matt clicks his tongue, “okay, then what’s this about having lunch with a storm?”

Foggy laughs, “not _a_ storm, _the_ Storm. Remember I said my parents don’t actually own the farm?” Matt nods and Foggy continues, “yeah well the Storm family owns it. We’re going to have lunch at their place now, which I guess is _chill_ ,” he stops at the foot of the veranda steps and observes the architecture of the exterior of the house, “it’s beautiful inside from what I remember. All these little trinkets around and antique furniture. I haven’t been inside for years. I kind of avoided them because I felt bad about not helping out as much as my parents did.”

“You avoided the owners of a farm you lived on?”

“Yeah I mean, it’s easier than you’d think!” Foggy says, moving up the stairs with Matt.

From the stairs Matt can hear the chaos from inside and he starts to understand why they call the family the storm. At the entrance, Foggy’s step-mother embraces them both, and they’re taken through to the dining room where children run around, playing under the table and jumping up on chairs. Shouting and laughter echoes through the floorboards, stomping and jumping vibrate and Matt can hear the clattering of glass and porcelain against the oak dining table, the picture frames and vases and trinkets on the shelving in the room all shifting out of place.

The children don’t seem to notice their presence much, no grand expression of love. Candace calls out to them to sit down the end of a long table and Foggy pulls out a chair for Matt, shaking loose a grabbing hand. In the room Matt notes Foggy and Candace’s heartbeats, plus seven other heartbeats darting around. Behind the walls another three heartbeats flicker, the smell of freshly baked bread and table cheese and other fresh produce floats in from the kitchen. Shortly after, the heartbeats from the kitchen move toward the dining room, the scent of dishes drawing closer. A man instructs the children to collect various items, pairing name with task description. Courtney was to seat Jaimie in her high chair, Leslie was to bring in the plates, Riley was to bring in the cutlery, Shelby was to bring in the glasses for water and Crystal was to go get their mother.

Matt sits in the dining chair, listening to the somewhat ordered chaos tear through the house and eventually everything that was required was brought to the table, food included, leaving everyone to take their seats. All the seats fill up, Candace taking the seat on the other side of Matt, Foggy’s family sitting beside her and the Storm filling the rest. Except one spot beside the Storm’s father. Nevertheless, the lunch began. Talk moved from Foggy’s long weekend plans to common university related questions, then moved to business discussions. Matt tunes out of the adult’s conversation at this point, opting to listen to the banter between children. Soon they too get bored of talk and of the food before them, and begin slipping out of their chairs. One child, Leslie, runs around to Foggy and asks for permission to plait Foggy’s hair. He obliges and he sips on his third glass of wine.  

Matt kicks his chair out a little, letting himself some room to breathe from the feast he’d just devoured. He listens to Leslie grumble about Foggy’s knotty hair, starting over to do a neater job. “Is it always like this?”

“Like what?” Foggy asks, setting his wine glass down on the table cloth.

Matt thinks for a moment, then replies, “like a chaotic storm?”

“Yes,” Foggy laughs, “I mean, just this family. We’re pretty relaxed at home, only me and Candace, no surprise siblings I haven’t mentioned yet!” Foggy slaps Matt’s thigh, slightly drunk.

“It’s absolutely crazy,” Candace agrees, “it’s really wild. You kind of get these experiences with them like –“ Candace taps Matt on the shoulder, prompting him to face her, “alright so a few years back, just after we moved in basically, we had this enormous torrential rainfall, do you remember hearing about that on the news Matt? It’s kind of biblical actually, the way it went. Anyway, we had mad floods, and when the water finally dried up we had this insane mouse infestation. Millions, I swear, Foggy don’t laugh, you remember! You’d be driving the truck and you just _had_ to get used to that popping sound or you’d go nuts. I remember one time I lifted up the couch pillows and found at least ten mice _alive_ in there. I was so sure I’d cleaned them all out and I checked a week later because by that time I was pretty paranoid, and there were twenty more!”

“You’ve side tracked Candace!” Anna Nelson prompts.

Matt cocks his head, realizing the adults have fallen silent, listening to Candace’s story.

She continues, “Anyway, the mouse infestation finally reduced, but in replacement we got fucking snakes. Sorry, kids in the room. We got a snake plague. Anyway, I was hanging out with Crystal at the time, when we heard Shelby shout from on top of the pile of hay bales. Javier then comes marching out of the barn and blows this whistle and it’s like, avengers assemble! All the Storm girls come and pile into this five seater, me included. So that’s Crystal and Javier in the front because they always get their own seat,” Candace says rolling her eyes, “and that left six of us in the backseat—“

“Five!” Crystal interrupts, “Jaimie hadn’t been born yet!”

“It’s a _hyperbole_ Crys. Anyway, there were _five_ of us in the back seat of Javier’s little sedan, hey what happened to that old thing in the end?”

“Crystal drove it into the barn,” Javier barks, his mouth full of bread.

“You didn’t tell me _you_ did that!” Candace exclaims, stamping her foot on the floorboards.

“Continue with the story Candace,” Foggy insists.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Candace sighs heavily, “there’s not much to go now. There’s just the five of us girls jumping around in the back seat of Javier’s car and Shelby and Riley are hanging out the back windows with shot guns in their tiny hands, shooting the fucking snakes up as Javier rips through the fields!” Candace makes gunshot noises, then exclaims, “can you imagine that? I thought I was going to die!”

“Took her a good month for me to convince her to come for a visit again!” Crystal says, slouching in her chair, her feet kicked up on the table.

“I was a veteran snake hunter by that time. Fearless!” Candace announces.

“Calm down girls, Tresha’s trying to rest,” Javier demands, voice stern.

Matt senses the command in his voice and he instinctively straightens in his chair, noticing a similar reaction in the guests around him. He smiles to himself, pleasantly listening to the conversations continue. The children move out of the dining room, buzzing around in other sections of the house, leaving the adults to reminiscent together. He notes Foggy pushing his plates to the side and resting his head on the table, and within minutes Matt notices the change in breathing from wakefulness to sleep.

 

  **2012.**

**[Audio// Blue ruin.]**

He tears through the screams, thrashes and gallops through the agony of the city. The superheroes above him try to save the world, the air filling with aliens, with explosions of glass shattering, chemical reactions and the ripping of flesh, of alien sounds. He blocks out the stratosphere and focuses on the troposphere, throws out his fishing line to each source, each cry for help, each wretched sob and howling scream. He tries to save them all, he tears down buildings to save the trapped, he carries the wounded to safe places, he saves the children from running back inside.

He loops back over the city, over and over, his strength wearing thin and the despair still crushes him, still exhausts him of all his resources and he can’t save them all. He pushes himself but he tastes the copper in his mouth, he tastes foreign copper, rare blood that’s not his own and he hears their last breaths when it’s too late. He can’t save them all and it’s the crashing buildings around him, lives lost in destruction, lives left in wreckage, diaspora in their own city. He can’t save them all and he ends up one of them, pushed onto a stretcher and loaded out on the streets, the hospitals over capacity. The bad guys swallowed up in the sky but leaving great havoc in their wake, immense ruin, and so many people left without hope.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> exhaustion catches up // the afterglow

**2009.**

**[Video// Silver birches shining like steel.]**

Foggy stirs, rolling his head to the side. His cheek sticks to leather and he opens his eyes, seeing only a brown haze. It wobbles in front of him, bouncing, a car engine roaring, the murk folding into the shape of the back of a car seat. Foggy turns on his back, seat belt sticking into his side and he watches the trees whip passed outside the car windows in a stream of green. His head’s misty, the voices of Anna and Candace a garbled noise until he bothers to digest it.

“Wh-where’s Matt?” Foggy mumbles, lips slack and tongue numb, the aftertaste of wine bitter in his throat.

Candace turns to rest her head on the leather seat, “hey there sleepyhead.”

Foggy rubs his forehead, combs his hair but gets stuck at the plaits the girls wove his hair into. He tries to speak again but it comes out incoherent this time.

“Don’t worry, he’s in the truck with Dad,” Anna says from the driver’s seat.

Candace nods toward the back window, “they’re behind us.”

Foggy sits up, blood draining from his head and he grips the leather seat beneath him, catching his breath. He cranes his neck and peers out the dusty back window. He spots his Dad’s truck trundling along behind them, Matt sitting in the passenger seat.

“He sure is quiet,” Candace muses, relaxing back in her seat.

“But we like him a lot,” Anna adds.

Foggy keeps his eyes trained on Matt, chatting and smiling and bouncing along in the truck. The green of the trees lining the road blur into a fraying ribbon, leading the eyes to a single focus, the dusty brown truck, and it’s the closed corner of a triangle, Matt at the northern point. Black shirt, black sunglasses, and Foggy wonders how Matt knows how to dress like a movie star.

 

He stumbles through the doorway, the house dark, his eyes flash blue and white and he leans against the plaster wall in the hallway, cool from the autumn drafts. He presses his palms against the wall and listens to his sister and step-mother potter about the house. Their house is a funny one, old fashioned, he supposes. A single hallway cuts the house in half, extending from the main entrance. It begins as a small tiled foyer then changing to floorboards which follow the hallway all the way down to the back of the house. Rooms break off the hallway, some connecting to each other with doors or strangely located windows, sort of delivery shelves between kitchen and dining room, or laundry to hallway. Two large sitting rooms occupy he front of the house, donned with large bay windows. Then behind them two bedrooms, one either side of the other. Then behind the bedrooms the kitchen opposite the bathroom, then the dining room and at the back of the house the master bedroom, with adjacent smaller bathroom and laundry. It’s very ordered, not very architecturally interesting. But functional.

He straightens when he hears the truck pull up outside and Candace strides past him. Shortly after, Ed and Matt step onto the tiles of the foyer followed by Candace with their luggage. Ed drops Matt off with Candace and strolls into the sitting room.

“You’re going to be staying in my room,” Foggy hears Candace saying as she drags their bags across the floorboards, her voice singing loud in the high ceilings.

“Yours?” Foggy calls down the hall, frowning.

“Yeah I’ve got a double bed now,” Candace calls back, “we never did update your single!”

Matt runs his hand over the plaster walls as he follows Candace, his fingers bumping against low hanging picture frames, and as he gets closer Foggy comes over to him, joins hands. They follow Candace into her room as she pushes the door open and plonks the bags down by her bed.

She goes to leave then pauses at her door frame, “just don’t have sex in my bed okay?”

“Ugh how could we? It’s so disgusting in here, don’t you ever do your washing?” Foggy says, kicking a pile of clothing off to the side of the wall.

“Hey I’m doing you a favour from you both having to sleep on your shitty bed _so quit your complaining_ ,” Candace hisses, then slips away down the hallway.

Foggy sighs, welcoming the contented quiet of the house in the afternoon, full tummies with the sun setting. He collapses on Candace’s bed, wrenching his shoes off, and at least the bed sheets are clean. Matt bounces beside him, his hair flopping over his face and Foggy throws his arms around him, pulling Matt to his chest. They lie together for a while, Foggy studying the posters Candace has stuck up on her wall. Everything’s pretty official looking, glossy paper, a3 and even some a2 sized posters of various bands Foggy’s never heard of. It’s nothing like the stuff on his wall in his old bedroom, if it’s all still there. Print outs he’s sourced himself, or cut outs from music magazines. Postage for official merchandise used to be outrageous and he’d always felt bad asking his parents for money when he didn’t do much except study for school, which paid off in the end he supposes. He accepts the glossy high quality prints as fair considering Candace seems to help out at the farm more than he ever did.

 Matt lies on his side and he begins exploring the jungle that is Foggy’s hair, and Foggy watches the smile creep on Matt’s face when he runs his fingers over the plaits the girls wove in. It’s weird, he thinks, being home. Travelling all this distance through the early morning, seeing the sunrise and now the sunset as he rests in his old home. Except Foggy’s always hated waking up and not being able to visualise the correct ceiling right away, not being able to picture what bed he’s sleeping in, what walls he’s going to look at. At least he’s here with Matt. He hums and closes his eyes, letting Matt stroke his hair, track the woven sections, play with the loose strands.

 

He stirs at the sound of machinery roaring to a start out in the fields. It’s not particularly loud from where he is but it’s so familiar that it jolts him from his sleep. Matt rolls onto his side, the blankets slipping down his back. Foggy glances at his freckled skin and he has this vague memory of Matt stripping him down to his underwear and pulling the blankets over him, the room dark and cold by that time.

Now, sunlight presses against thick green curtains covering the windows. The green reflects the sickening yellow of the walls peeping out beneath various posters. Foggy pulls himself to the edge of the mattress, sitting up, he feels groggy, his hair a mess about his head and he desperately needs a shower. He gets up and makes his way to the curtains, fumbling over the uneven ground layered with items of clothing. He pulls at the curtains, a thick layer of dust coats the heavy material and it billows in the air as he tugs the curtains open.

It’s dawn, the mountains in the distance a deep blue, trimmed with royal purple and gold. The trees they planted around the house when they moved in have grown tall, their long leaves glittering in the breeze. He cranks open the window, winding the rusty zig-zag chain out. Cobwebs stretch and break off and instantly a refreshing breeze pulls into the room. Warm hands curl around his waist and he leans into Matt’s touch. Matt pulls aside Foggy’s hair, kisses his neck.

“What’s the plan for today?” Matt asks, slipping his hands over Foggy’s ass.

Foggy hums, “I want to have a long hot shower…” he trails off when Matt flicks his thumbs underneath Foggy’s waistband, tickling his sensitive skin.

“And then?” Matt rasps, pressing against Foggy’s back.

“No further plans, except…” Foggy drawls, arching into Matt, grinding his ass over Matt’s bulge.

Matt moans, gently nibbling Foggy’s shoulder, “well, I was hoping…” Matt begins, peeling himself away from Foggy, “I mean, your father suggested taking me out on his bike…”

Foggy turns around, hands on Matt’s waist, “he already told you about his bike huh? Well you know what?” Foggy says, drawing circles around Matt’s nipple, “here’s a plan for ya. We’re going to shower first,” he slaps Matt’s ass as he walks around Matt, digs for a towel from his luggage, “And then _I’m_ going to take you for a ride, after I convince my Dad I won’t crash.”

Foggy finds a towel and chucks it at Matt, he catches it, grinning, “sounds perfect.”

 

    **2015.**

**[Video// Broken bricks.]**

There is no giddiness, no bliss, no afterglow pleasure. Matt peels himself out and Foggy can never have him still, he’s always coming, going, to and fro. A pair, only one or the other. He says, “I’m going out.”

Foggy stays silent, his ass throbbing, tingling and he wishes it would stop because he still wants more. Wants Matt to roll him over and kiss him and jerk him off like he used to, because it didn’t used to be so one sided, it didn’t used to be all about Matt and what he needed to breathe. Scanning Foggy with dead eyes.

“For how long?” Foggy asks, his mouth full of glass, sharp shards a contradiction to the soft pillow beneath his chin.

Debbie jumps up on their bed, plods over to Foggy and insists on sitting on top of his back. She marches around in a circle on his back before settling down, her tail curling underneath her. Her purr ignites, a tiny engine perched on his shoulder blades. He doesn’t want to look at Matt and now he can’t with a cat on his back. But then, the silence is enough. The tingle, the rawness of his exposed skin.

“Will you be back by morning?” Foggy asks.

“Yeah.” Matt replies.

He moves through the apartment, his footsteps echoing against cement floors, against the rough bricks and the thin plaster and Foggy feels like he’s sinking through the mattress, the night folding in on him as the soft padded walls close in on him. And he’ll be counting every suffocating second until Matt comes back. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt feels too much // Foggy sees too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've been posting the chapters two days apart, but i'm going to start spacing them out more because i haven't quite finished writing it completely. Please bear with me!

**2009.**

**[Audio// Howling whispers.]**

He sits in the raised seat of the motorbike, his helmet snug, wind slapping against his leather jacket. Edward had been disgruntled, to say the least, that he would not be the one to drive Matt around. He’d been told Ed just likes to show off, but that the bike isn’t a looker. It’s a deep red three wheeler with a raised seat for the passenger, and apparently that’s not very dignified despite its paint job. Ed boasts top speed and acceleration and that’s part of why Matt expressed interest in going for a spin.

He can’t see the world blurring past him as Foggy speeds through the country roads, but he can see it through Foggy, experience it through him. Know his focus, his grip on the handlebars, his gritting teeth as he tears around corners, avoiding the loose gravel.

They drive across the old tar riddled with pot holes and bumpy from the worst of summer and winter. Matt takes in the whiff of crops, of wheat and canola and corn and the distinct shift of scents when they pass the orchards bothered by flies. Ash and burning timber flicker, the signs of creating a fire-break, cuts distinct lines between paddocks, and with these divisions Matt determines Foggy’s route as a loop, driving back around to return. Except he begins to slow, bringing the bike to a slow trundle as he takes it off road, dust gushing out behind them with the kicking stones.

Matt senses Foggy becoming frustrated, the bike slowing down even further and eventually to a stop. He cuts the engine off and explains, “I want to take you out to this spot I used to go as a kid but this stupid thing’s too wide to fit through the thickets.”

“I don’t mind walking,” Matt says, unbuckling himself from his seat.

“Yeah I guess,” Foggy lifts himself out of his seat and throws off his helmet, “I just don’t get why Dad ever sold his old bike for _this_. I mean, what _is_ this monstrosity?”

Matt leaps out, feeling for Foggy, “it can’t be that bad.”

Foggy slips his arm around Matt’s waist, “it’s pretty bad.”

Foggy leads Matt into the thickets and Matt feels the warmth of the sun splintering through the forest leaves, the slight breeze rustling. After a few minutes Foggy takes his hand and steps forward, leading him through the densely packed tree trunks. Twigs and dried leaves crunch under his feet and he starts to feel giddy.

“I always wanted to live on a farm,” Matt admits.

Foggy turns briefly, walking backwards as he pulls Matt through the forest, “really?”

“Yeah,” Matt says bashful, “I’ve always lived in the city. At the orphanage, at college,” Foggy turns around again and listens as he takes Matt on, “the city is so full of people, so dense with noise.”

“Like noise pollution?” Foggy calls over his shoulder.

“Yeah, but not just from traffic. From people, from the buildings screaming in the skies, from the subway hissing beside the sewers. These noises, the sounds of the city and the way the odour lingers even on the edges, the taste of the air. I’m so used to it. I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to live so far away from it all, where it’s quiet and slow. Where time stretches on.”

“You’ve got that right about time here. Time goes slow when you’re not having fun.”

“But it _is_ fun, at least, I’m having a good time. Granted, there’s not so much happening on a day to day basis but the people are concentrated in pockets, little communities and I’ve only been with your family and friends for a day really but I feel like I already know them. Like they already know me.”

“Country living’s like that,” Foggy says.

“I think it’s nice. Everything’s not so… disconnected. The city’s busy and full but it’s like marbles in a jar. People touch each other’s lives but the gaps are never filled.”

Foggy stops, his heart pounding, but he speaks dejectedly, “you say that until you know what it’s like for everyone to know your secrets,” he locks his fingers between Matt’s and continues, “when people you don’t know anything about except maybe you recognise their face or their name, know wild things about you,” he brings their interlocked hands up and presses a kiss on Matt’s knuckles, “when I lived here as a kid, I had a pretty rough time. I missed my Mom. I was mad at her too I guess for not being there for me,” he then lets go of one hand and begins leading Matt through the woods again, “work was her life. There became a point where she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, look after me anymore… Anyway, I didn’t want to become a farmer. I wanted to be a lawyer like Mom and so I isolated myself. On purpose. I studied loads. Got good grades. The loneliness paid off in the end I guess,” he helps Matt over a fallen log and then stops in a clearing, “and in my spare time I came out here in Dad’s old bike.”

The clearing is lined by trees, the branches spiring through the sky into a sort of leafy roof, caging the air beneath. He smells old wood, old growth, in the rim of the circle and in the centre, except the centre is encircled by dead wood, fallen trunks and rotting branches. The speckled sun dries some sections of the dead wood, the shadows harbour dampness and rot. Foggy takes him across the grass to the collection of fallen trees. He reaches over a large trunk, scrambling around through the forest floor. He pulls something out and presses it in Matt’s hands.

“When I was about fifteen or sixteen I got crazy about whittling,” Foggy explains.

Matt feels the sculpture in his hands, runs his fingers over the carvings, bits of moss and dirt falling off as he goes. “Is it a dragon?”

“Yeah, it’s a dragon!” Foggy says, chuffed.

Foggy sits on the large trunk and begins scrambling around again, pulling out an assortment of sculptures. He holds them in his lap until Matt’s done with each one, passing the sculptures between them. There’s some simple stuff, shapes, plump cows and three legged cats, and there’s also some really amazing artworks, the dragon, a unicorn, and a figurine holding up a hammer.

Matt pauses on the figurine, running his fingers over the chiselled hammer, and Foggy comments, “who would have known Thor’s actually a real living dude?”

Matt chuckles, “maybe dragons are real too.”

“I can hope!” Foggy cries.

Foggy puts the sculptures back in their home and pulls Matt down on the log beside him.

“I had no idea you had such a creative side to you Foggy, you could be a sculptor.”

Foggy laughs at the idea, “in another life dude.”

Matt smiles softly, leans back on the log, arching his back. Beneath his hands he feels the wood of the log, old and lifeless but memories linger on the surface. The indents in the bark, the scratches and sections peeled off, the solidified snail trails criss-crossing the bark. He breathes deeply, taking in the scent of growth, of the dirt on the blades of grass and of the homes of insects amongst the leaves. He smiles, a breeze lifting beneath his jacket, the whir of machinery far off in the distance. He shivers, skin prickling from the sounds and the smells and the taste of nature on his lips. He absorbs as much as he can, filters through the faint scent of fire smoke in the air, the dashing bunnies over the grass, the whoosh of the birds soaring and squawking around the treetops. And as he absorbs it all he has this feeling of serenity, of pleasant tranquillity out in this quaint clearing, catalogues of Foggy’s teenaged escapism amongst trunks and moss behind him, the up to date version beside him.

He’s broken out of his reverie when he feels Foggy’s hand cover his, cold from the autumn air, and he tunes in to the waves Foggy emits, a radio station privy to Matt’s senses only. Foggy closes his fingers around Matt’s hand and he fine tunes the signal, hones in on the relay between heart and mind, between beating heart and pumping blood. He can’t see but he feels Foggy’s eyes on him, tracing him, feels the anticipation and excitement magnify between them. He likes the way Foggy observes him, he likes to identify the attraction throbbing in Foggy’s fingertips, in his parted lips, in the tightened muscle movements in his pants. Matt likes the way Foggy always starts slow, tip toes, tests the waters. Foggy leans over and kisses him and he’s tender and gentle despite the pressure in his pants and Matt’s always admired his patience.

Matt moves his lips with Foggy’s, his partner’s hair slipping from the hold behind Foggy’s ear, dipping over Matt’s shoulder as they kiss. He flips his hand, lets Foggy trace the shape of Matt’s palm, the fold of skin around his thumb, the joints of his fingers. Matt likes the way Foggy kisses him too. He’s been kissed by people who treat him like he’s a glass statue, guiding him too much, controlling his movements this way or that. Foggy respects him and kisses him because he’s deserving of passion, because they both are, of unhindered desire.

Foggy starts rubbing Matt’s thigh and Matt tentatively touches his tongue against Foggy’s, opening his mouth up to Foggy, sharing breaths as Foggy shifts closer across the log. Matt’s eyes flutter shut as Foggy massages Matt’s thigh higher and higher, to his lap, to the zipper striping an uncomfortable line across his clothed dick. Matt sighs into Foggy’s mouth and he slips down the log, his legs folding upwards, leaning his head back on the log as Foggy straddles his lap. Foggy hooks Matt’s chin with one finger, runs his thumb over Matt’s stubble and kisses him again, hair falling about them both.

Matt feels the aged wood behind him and the twigs and leaves crushing beneath him, amplified by his disregard of filtrations. Matt feels Foggy cupping his jaw, caressing his neck and the stray bits of beard he leaves growing. He hears Foggy’s knees digging into the dirt either side of him, of his shoes grating the grass, steadying movements as he grinds into Matt’s lap, clothed cocks rubbing between material. This incensed heat builds between them and it’s practically radiating off Foggy, this hunger, this ravenous yearning in Foggy’s kissing, in his sexual touch, in his grinding and it’s all controlled, all carefully calculated in ways to please not just Matt, but each other. And Matt feels the brittle bark beneath his back fraying, breaking away as he arches across it, his hands folding into Foggy’s wavy hair, the evidence of braids imprinted in dents.

It probably shouldn’t be this easy but with the control switch flicked off Matt can’t help it really. Foggy’s a hot mess seducing him in his sanctuary of clandestine conferences, two lovers uniting in a passionate affair. He tastes Foggy’s lips and smells his skin and feels hard cock against his, separated by denim and cotton mere threads to Matt. Foggy moans into his mouth and Matt pulls down on Foggy’s waist, grinds together, his jaw clenching, teeth grating and he faces the heavens as he comes, the blinding of all senses, the great black out. Seconds tick by and it all returns to him, crashing down on him with the strength of Niagara Falls. The shivering trees, the swaying Foggy above him, panting through a grin. Foggy presses his forehead against his, sweaty and hot and maybe if he tried hard enough he could read Foggy’s mind.

He hunches on the log, back a C shape to the cylindrical curve of the log. He drops his legs to the ground, Foggy perching in his lap and Matt claws at the earth, wringing himself out, flattening out the fabric of his mind again, making sense of it all. He licks his lips and leaning back on the log, ear pressed against wood, he feels the hunger laced over him, like prey, the hunter poised for the kill.

“You just came didn’t you?” Foggy says hoarsely, throat dry from hot breaths.

Matt nods against the wood, still trying to inhale the oxygen he needs to live on.

“That’s so fucking hot,” Foggy states, sitting off to Matt’s side, legs hanging over legs.

Matt gasps, “maybe this is too early…”

Panic piques in Foggy and he quickly interrupts, “no, no, it’s fine don’t be ashamed!”

Matt pants, his confession of love, perhaps better unsaid until a later point in time, is swept away in the breeze and his breathlessness, and he submits to fatigue. He’ll say it another time, say it a better way. He pulls Foggy to his chest, lets Foggy listen to the way his heart still thrums for him. Matt insists on the rest for a timeless period, the midday sun beaming through the branches, warming them both. It may be too early to say, but he feels it to be true. Able to lie in silence, to bask in each other’s presence. In their kiss, in their frisky love making. In his disregard to the mess in his pants, because Foggy’s here with him, in his arms. The evidence points to the truth, without needing to state the obvious. But when he’s not breathless, and when he’s overcome by love again, he’ll confess it in embarrassing anecdotes, because that’s what Foggy deserves.

   **2015.**

**[Video// The click of a light, the start of a dream.]**

Foggy hoists two cat carriers under his arms and holds the other four between his hands, glaring at the taxi driver as he drives off, wild eyes in the rear view mirror. He stands on Karen’s doorstep and bops his forehead on the doorbell until he hears the small vibrations whirring behind the button.

He leans back on his heels, the cats growling their boxes and he tries to fight back the tears that ran freely as he drove away with his girls in the taxi.

The moment Karen opens her door a fraction she pushes it wide open, dashing over to help Foggy carry his cats. “Foggy, you should have asked me to pick you up, I could have helped you!”

Foggy hands her Moondragon and Debbie from under his arms and insists on carrying the rest up to her apartment. The elevator ride up is quiet save for scared mewls from Foggy’s cats and he stares at the ground, avoiding Karen’s concerned looks.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” Foggy mumbles as the elevator doors ding open.

Karen steps through, leading Foggy to her apartment, “it’s really no trouble Foggy, you can stay as long as you need to.”

“I’ll only need a few days, I’ve just got to find a place to rent.”

Karen stays silent for a while, leading Foggy down her labyrinth of apartment blocks. It reminds him of their room back at college, the room right at the back corner of the dormitory, so far away from everything else. Foggy shivers, still thinking about his life in terms of ‘theirs’ rather than ‘his’.

“Foggy… I don’t think it’s going to be easy for you to find a landlord so… cool with you having six cats,” Karen says softly. They get to her apartment and she jams the key into the lock, shimmying it at odd angles until the door opens.

Foggy hoists the cat carriers in his hands and follows Karen into her apartment, closing the door behind him with his foot, “if there’s one guy I’m sure there are others. It’s just a matter of asking.”

Karen and Foggy set the cat carriers on her carpet. Karen goes to open one up but Foggy holds out his hand, “they won’t be happy about it, but leave them for a few minutes. They need to get used to how your place smells before they’re let out.”

Foggy slings off his backpack and starts pulling out various cat things, toys and a bag of snacks and bowls for food and plastic bags to cover temporary litter trays. The essentials. Karen brings over her kettle and fills a bowl with cold water, then sets the kettle on her coffee table.

She tucks her blonde hair behind her ears as she glances around, “is this all you brought? Stuff for your cats?”

Foggy shrugs, “I couldn’t carry anything else.”

He ignores Karen’s frown and starts to unhinge the locks on the carriers. He lets Moondragon out first because she’s the boss, and if he left her til last she probably wouldn’t go near him again.

Karen kneels beside him and helps with letting the cats out, “Foggy, you _should_ have called me,” she says, concern laced with hurt in her voice.

Foggy lets the last cat out and sits back on his heels, dragging his hands through his hair, “I’m sorry, I just had to get out of there. And I wasn’t going to leave my girls alone a second longer,” he says, patting Glorianna as she steps up in his thighs.

Karen cups Foggy’s shoulder, “what’s going on with you two Foggy?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Foggy growls. He doesn’t mean to sound aggressive and he covers his face with his hands, sucking at the skin of his palms briefly, then wipes his hands away, returning to patting Glorianna, “I mean, _nothing_ is going on. Which is the problem.”

He hasn’t really talked about Matt with anyone, it feels good talking to someone, letting them talk some sense back into him. He observes his cats while he gains the courage to speak freely. Debbie roams over to him, encircling him like he’s prey, then tries to get in on the patting. Foggy picks her up and curls her over his shoulder, where she sits happily, purring in Foggy’s ear. Liz and Heather sniff out Karen and Milla sniffs out the entire apartment, mapping it out in her feline mind.

“He’s been—“ Foggy begins, choking for a second, “he’s been gone for days… He goes away during the night sometimes, or during work, you’ve seen that. But there was one time… he was gone for over a week and when he came back he was so fucked up,” Foggy starts to cry, “and he promised me he would never do that again!”

Karen embraces him, arms wrapping tight around him, forcing Debbie to leap off.

Foggy’s words overflow out of him, spilling over Karen’s arms, his voice strained from tears and phlegm, “he won’t answer his phone, I don’t know when he’s coming back,” he chokes, “What the fuck is he doing? I’m so, so sick to my stomach that this is the one time he won’t come home.”

 

Milla sits on Foggy’s lap, he pats her as he scrolls through rental listings, brown fur floating in the air in front of him. His phone rings from his back pocket and the six cats around him all growl in dissatisfaction as he half sits up to fish his phone out in time to catch the phone call. He glances at the caller ID. It’s Candace. He lets the phone ring out, he’s not sure he wants to talk to his family right now. She dials again and Foggy knows if he doesn’t answer this one she’s going to call Matt.

“Hey,” Foggy says quietly, Milla settling on his lap again.

“Foggy? God why don’t you ever answer on the first ring through?” Candace accuses him, her voice tense.

Foggy lies back on Karen’s couch, “I’m a little busy right now Candace, I’ll call you back later?”

“No you won’t call me back, besides, I have bad news.”

“Why don’t you ever call me with good news?” Foggy sighs.

Candace clicks her tongue, “hey, I call you all the time.”

“Yeah but you’re almost always drunk at 3am. That’s not good news for me.”

“I’m having fun at least!” Candace cries.

Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose, “whatever, what’s the news?”

“Tresha finally died.”

Foggy holds his breath, “ _finally_?”

“Okay, no, that sounds bad. But you know, she had cancer for years and years and it was a slow horrible death. I think she was happy to go by the end of it. Anyway, that’s the bad news. The good news is that the Storm girls are moving in with Crystal in Manhattan, right in your neighbourhood. I know you guys haven’t exactly kept in touch, but I think you should give her a call. She could use some help navigating the big city.”

“I don’t know… I’m really busy Candace…”

“I know she’d appreciate it. And it would ease my soul to know she’s got some friendly help,” Candace presses.

Milla crawls up his chest to nuzzle his neck and Foggy sighs, knowing there’s no point in fighting his sister on this, “alright, what’s her number?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /They've been studying for exams and Foggy's stressed out of his mind. Matt has an idea to help him relax.../

**2010.**

**[Audio// Sirens.]**

It begins in a moment, a low whirring, and with his fingers on the small bumps on his computer, he freezes. The distant whir rockets to life, a repetitive siren screaming down the halls of their dormitory, dashing under the gaps of doors, smashing against windows. Foggy leaps up from his desk, the alarm ringing goosebumps over his skin, jolting him away from his study. Matt, having anticipated the alarm, remains calm as Foggy scrambles to shove his papers into a bag.

“This better not be a false alarm!” Foggy shouts over the voice stating the opposite.

Matt peaks down the hall, students shuffling or running over the carpet and down the staircase, a calamity of panic bouncing against the concrete stairwell. He sifts through the noises, locates the fire alarm beneath the staircase and assess the heartbeats. There’s legitimate fear woven through the group of students, amongst stress and annoyance. He’s unsure if the lever has been purposefully pulled or it is actually a planned drill. By law they’re meant to have fire escape drills annually, but his second year in, this is the first.

“This is not a drill,” the voice over announces pleasantly but urgently, repeating it over and over and Foggy tugs Matt off his desk chair.

“Come on, we need to get downstairs.”

He leaves his study and trails after Foggy, sensing the agitation in his muscles, the way his shoulders knot and hunch as Foggy takes him down the stairs. Outside students flock at the water feature, some happily chatting, others grumbling. They find Marci sitting on the edge of the fountain, her dressing gown pulled tight around her and droplets of water splashing inches away from her.

“ _What_ are you wearing Foggybear?” Marci asks, appalled.

Matt feels Foggy clutching his hand, shivering, and Matt pulls Foggy closer.

“They’re called pyjamas, Marci. If I’m studying in my bedroom I’m allowed to wear pyjamas,” Foggy says defensively, snuggling up to Matt.

“But what is that _thing_ on them?” Marci questions, pointing at Foggy’s pyjama shirt.

“It’s winnie-the-pooh. They’re hand-me-downs, okay. Got a problem with that?”

“From who, you’re Mom?”

Foggy pulls his hair into a ponytail as he admits, “yeah, my step-mom actually. We’re the same size! Besides, I like pooh-bear.”

Matt senses the retort piquing in Marci and he quickly changes the subject, “you ready for our exam tomorrow Marci?”

Marci grips the stone fountain and leans back as she stretches, her long hair draping over the surface. She straightens and sighs, “I’ve been cramming all night until I was interrupted by this stupid drill.”

“ _Cramming_ ,” Foggy repeats, “you’re telling me you’re pulling an all-nighter for this one?”

Marci shrugs, combing her fingers through her hair, “I’m really good at retaining information for exams, it’s kind of my thing.”

Foggy makes a frustrated noise, “Matt and I have been studying all semester for this _one_ exam. You know who’s marking it right? She’s the toughest marker at Columbia! If you don’t pass this class you have to do an intensive summer course with her and that has an even higher fail rate than her core class!”

Marci shrugs again, swinging her leg off the stone bench, “I’ll be fine.”

Foggy steps away, pinching the bridge of his noise and breathes, “how can you be so calm about this?”

Matt tugs at the sleeves of his sweater, pulling them over his wrists and he tunes out of Foggy and Marci’s conversation, focusing on the murmurs of the crowd. Others are sharing similar concerns, worried about the big exam the next day, if they’ve studied enough or if they’re going to get enough sleep, or what they’ll have for breakfast or if they’ll even have time. He searches for the hint of command and finally, at the entry to the dorm, he hones in on the voices of security guards conversing. Listening, he learns no one’s been hurt and there’s no sign of immediate danger except maybe the health hazards in the communal kitchen.

Shortly after, one of them announces on a megaphone, “false alarm everyone! False alarm! You may all return to your dormitory!”

A chorus of groans ripples through the collection of students, and Foggy throws his arms up in the air, “well this has been a huge waste of time!”

 

Matt lies on his back on top of his bed, listening to Foggy as he opens up his notebook and sharpens his pencil, then sharpens his spare ones. He arranges the notes on his desk and folds them into a pile, then decides he’d rather have them out separately so he can see them all at once. He takes a sip from his drink bottle and sharpens his pencil just a little bit more. He lines the pencils up in order of length and then slams his fist on the desk, water spilling from the bottle.

“I’ve totally lost my mojo thanks to that stupid alarm,” Foggy groans.

Matt rolls onto his stomach, hanging his arms off the side of his bed, “I think we should push our beds together.”

Foggy ignores him and continues to express his lack of motivation while Matt rolls off his bed and kneels on the floor, pushing off the locks of the wheels on his bed.

“I’ve got these notes to look over,” Foggy says, flipping through the pages in his notebook, “and these flash cards to quiz myself with…”

After unlocking all the wheels, Matt shuffles along the floor on his knees, pushing his bed along the floorboards. He swings it around and pushes the side against Foggy’s bed, then starts to lock the outer wheels in place.

“…And I’ve still got to rewrite my practice essay until my fingers bleed, that’s when I’ll know I’ve got it memorised for sure.”

Matt clicks the last lock in place and clambers back on top of the beds, draping himself over the mattresses.

Foggy pulls his hair tie out and flicks it against the wall in front of him, sighing, “I’ve got so much stuff to do still but I can’t concentrate anymore. And I’m too fucking buzzed to sleep…”

Matt tugs off his sweater, tossing it behind him and says in a growl, “I think I can help with that.”

Foggy swings back on two legs on his chair, holding onto the desk, “I don’t know how you and Marci can be so chill about this exam, it’s making me go crazy!”

“Come over here, I’ll help you relax,” Matt coos, then emphasizes, “ _Foggy_.”

Hearing his name, Foggy turns his head and Matt registers the hitch in Foggy’s breathing when he sees him, “what ‘cha doing buddy?”

Matt shrugs slowly, pouting, “thought I’d get your mind off studying for a bit.”

Foggy puts his seat down, the rubber stopper slamming on the wooden floorboards as Foggy leaps onto the bed. Matt bounces from Foggy’s movement and he grins, curling around him. Foggy’s heartbeat races and Matt feels it in his bones, the bass line to a silent soundtrack. He feels for Foggy’s face, gently pulls Foggy’s chin in to kiss his lips and his slips his spare hand under Foggy’s pyjama shirt, locating his nipple, grazing his thumb across the sensitive skin. Foggy hooks his leg over Matt’s waist as they kiss, and inches apart Matt can feel Foggy throbbing, a magnetic pulse between them.

Foggy’s tongue is hot and plump in his mouth and he loathes to draw away from the flavours of Foggy’s mouth but he does for the promise of a treat for his palette. He nibbles Foggy’s lips, short whiskers over Foggy’s skin mingling with his own. His fingers lead the way of his kissing, across Foggy’s jawline, down his neck, to his collarbone exposed by the open flaps of the neck of his pyjamas. Matt flicks the plastic buttons through loose buttonholes, they easily slip out, baring Foggy’s chest to him. He shifts Foggy’s leg off him and sits up, straddling Foggy’s waist.

He arches his back, rolling his hips slowly into Foggy’s, their hardened cocks stretching fabric and Matt lets out a deep breath, “I’ve been meditating…”

Matt rolls into Foggy again, causing him to crane his neck back into the pillow, teeth ground shut. Foggy hisses, “for our exams?”

Matt grunts and easily yanks Foggy’s pyjama bottoms off, the old fleece crumpling around Foggy’s ankles. “Forget exams,” Matt says hoarsely, then repeats, “I’ve been meditating… for us. For you.”

He scoots down Foggy’s legs and settles in between them, takes Foggy’s upright cock in his hands, the heat spiking into his hands. He places his free hand on Foggy’s tummy, feeling the way the man’s breathing changes, heavy with anticipation. Matt drags his thumb over the head of Foggy’s cock, it twitches, droplets pearling at the point. And as Matt takes Foggy in his mouth he hears the shuddering shiver through Foggy’s body, his toes twitching, his thighs jerking, his tummy clenching and that catch of breath, that hissing tongue held back by closed teeth. Matt holds Foggy’s cock at the opening of his throat, concentrating not to gag and he savours the taste for a moment, savours the sound of Foggy’s blood throbbing through his mouth. A secret show only audible by Matt. He draws his head upwards, sucking, the walls of his mouth wetting flaming dry skin. Matt takes him again, deep throat, his fingers clawing through the mess of hair at the base, and on the fall back to earth, the pull of gravity, he curls his tongue around Foggy’s thick shaft, twists as far as he can reach, a corkscrew grinding down into the depths, twisting back out, and repeat.

All the while he keeps track of Foggy’s heart, tracking the funnelling of blood, the grating of bones as Foggy’s fingers grip and clench and loosen when Matt pauses in between, neither tip nor toe. Matt teases him, drags it out, drags his teeth, gently, scraping, tickling his teeth up Foggy’s length, and at the head he lines the shape, licks the folds of skin stretched tight. He presses a kiss on the tip, exposing cool air to Foggy’s shaft and he wriggles, complaints in his whines and Matt complies, tastes him again and again, clawing at Foggy’s skin down his waist, drawing Foggy’s legs wide either side him, pyjama bottoms tossed aside. He feels the strain in Foggy’s body, the pull of muscles, the blood running thin, his eyes fluttering with his breath. And he’s holding a quivering cock way back in his throat when the climax comes on the dot, calculations in and true. Foggy comes in Matt’s mouth, the salty seed dripping down his throat and Matt holds him, his palms stuck to Foggy like suction cups, soaking in the release, refusing to let go. He swallows and Foggy’s exasperated moans slip away in the night and Matt notes the resignation in his breath, the feeling of finality and he teeths Foggy’s cock, letting him loose.

Matt crawls up beside Foggy, lying his head on Foggy’s shoulder, the sound of his heart amplified. His own cock strains in his pants still, but he holds on, calling back to practiced breathing methods, deep breaths, a clear mind. He feels Foggy tracing lines on his upper arm, over his shoulder, sending lightning bolts across his skin.

“What are you drawing?” Matt asks, his voice raspy, and he tries not to dig his cock into Foggy’s side too hard.

“Nothing really, I’m connecting your freckles,” Foggy says, connecting Matt’s invisible dots.

“I didn’t know I had freckles,” Matt admits.

Foggy hums in response, sitting on his side so he can continue to trace the freckles. Matt curls his back, letting Foggy trace his stubby fingers over his chest, skating circles around Matt’s abdomen, darting down just above the lip of Matt’s pants. Matt flinches every time, his cock throbbing and he tries to just breath, to calm himself, please, please just focus, Foggy’s fingers on his skin, like rock and flint, sparks running between them, ignition imminent.

“I want to last longer,” Matt rasps, pulling his fingers through Foggy’s hair.

Foggy’s lips are wet next to his ear, a hot lock over the edge, threatening to push him over, “is this why you’ve been going to the gym?”

Matt nods, biting his lip, “I want to please you,”

Foggy gives Matt’s ass a squeeze, “you do please me.”

Matt knots his thighs, his cock unbearable, “I want to go for longer, I-I want to fuck you forever.”

Foggy laughs, his dick stirring, perking with life, and he presses his lips against Matt’s, lazy from the afterglow, but feverish from the lust in Matt’s pants. Matt unbuckles his belt and shucks down his pants, kicking them away and he clenches his teeth together, keeping cool, remaining calm as Foggy gracefully swings over him, straddling him. The joint beds separate slightly as Matt lies across them, but he thinks nothing of it, the feel of Foggy’s ass ripe against his cock.

Foggy shakes out his hair, Matt imagines it must shimmer a radiant gold. Foggy grinds his ass behind Matt’s cock, untwists this lid of lube and spreads it over Matt’s cock. His eyes flutter, his fingers jar and he has to hold on, please hold on, it’s only just begun. He listens to the squelch of the lube as Foggy dips his finger into his asshole, and if his mind wasn’t spinning already he could have heard it, he could have tasted it, Foggy’s hot fingers in his ass, prepping himself, slowly widening and loosening and how can he do that at the same time as grinding, how is this man so multi-skilled?

He sits up, his muscles working to hold him in place and he kisses Foggy as the man works himself, tastes the eagerness in his mouth because that comes easy to Matt. When the senses are read naturally, tongue for taste, fingers for touch, he doesn’t have to work so hard to taste with his nose or see with his ears. Foggy’s breathy in his mouth and Matt can see the heat swelling in his stomach, a ball of white hot heat, spreading to his cock, to his ass. Foggy grabs Matt’s dick and presses it into him, slowly, the head of his cock widening the walls as he goes and Matt’s almost blinded by the pressure, knocked out by the heat wave. Foggy moans and it’s a deep roar in Foggy’s throat but comes out subdued, sound stolen by breath, in and out, breathing and fucking and Matt truly wants this to last forever.

But then again, Foggy goes tantalisingly slow, working Matt’s cock through him, rolling onto him to get that right angle, hit that right spot, and Matt’s losing blood to the centre of his body, a magnified collection and Matt clutches Foggy’s thighs, pulls him in for a kiss and then guides his cock back into Foggy, a calculated tease. Foggy gasps in surprise, and then hums, his mouth wet and sloppy and Matt hears the squelch and the squeeze and the scrape as their bodies interlock, meld together, a plug in the socket, the perfect match. Foggy begins to roll his hips faster, finding the rhythm to keep hitting his sweet spot.

Matt matches him, back arched, Foggy’s butt curling onto his dick at each thrust, each curve to dig deeper, throbbing and mind splitting, side splitting. Matt pulls Foggy’s dick in time too, somehow, everything in time, in beat with the tempo they divined themselves. Matt can taste the blood pumping through Foggy’s veins, swelling in his dick, pearlescent droplets at his tip and Matt feels it rocket through Foggy every time Matt’s dick hits Foggy’s sweet spot. Feels the moans, the deep throat moans of pleasure and of the pain of being split open, fire within them burning them from the inside out. Foggy’s flint on Matt’s stone, and the ignition bursts. Matt comes into Foggy, a roaring crash, unrestrained from a once concentrated focus. There’s nothing except the rapid beat of Foggy in his blindness, Matt’s radio, the crackling white noise slowly tuning back into reality.

Sometime during the eruption Foggy had come too, spilt over his hands, over Matt’s stomach, come coiling across his belly. And in the fallout Foggy collapses beside Matt, debauched, split and sore but pleased. The beds beneath them having separated, a large gap howls beneath them but they sleep across the beds anyway, the prospect of sitting an exam a distant concept in their wiped out minds.

 

It begins as a low whir, as most electronic noises do, and explodes into a high pitched tone. Matt’s ears prick, in his sleepy haze at first he thinks it must be another fire alarm. But after about half a minute the ringing silences itself and Matt finds himself falling back to sleep in Foggy’s arms. It feels like hours but it’s probably only minutes afterwards, the ringing picks up again. This time, Foggy stirs in his sleep, picks up his phone then puts it back on the bedside table, ignoring the caller. They both try to go back to sleep again when they’re woken again by Matt’s phone going off.

“Candace, Candace, Candace,” his phone announces from across the room.

Matt sits up, “I think we better answer,”

Foggy groans, yanking himself out of bed and over to Matt’s bedside table. He picks up the phone and says bitterly, “What is it Candace?”

“Oh Matt!” Candace sounds distressed over the crackling receiver and Matt pulls the blankets up to his chin, trying to listen in on their conversation.

“It’s Foggy, why the fuck are you calling so early?” Foggy grumbles, clambering back into bed beside Matt.

The idea of sleeping across two beds was abandoned during the night, and the two opted to sleep on the one bed, naked bodies flushed against each other. Now, they sit up in the bed, shoulder to shoulder, and Matt paws at the blankets as he listens.

“Holy shit Foggy I’ve been trying to call you all morning! Something _awful_ has happened… I don’t know what they’re going to do, their mother is practically bed ridden, Crystal’s barely fourteen, she can’t be expected to keep everyone together…”

Foggy interrupts her, “Candace, Candace slow down, what _happened_?”

“It’s Javier… he… he…”

He doesn’t even have to hear what Candace said to know what happened to Javier. He senses this overwhelming dread in Foggy, this sickening despair, quickly followed by fear and stress and Foggy’s saying, “I can’t come back home for the funeral, I’ve got finals starting in a few hours,” and it’s not like Javier’s a family member either, he’s not going to be able to use the family emergency excuse.

Matt takes Foggy’s hand in his and he’s shaking, Foggy’s shaking and what can he do, what can he do?

The ringing of Foggy’s phone goes off again but it’s a memory, it mixes in with the fire alarm, with the sirens of the fire engines and the ambulances and police cars, a city full of screams for help, a town, a single man in the middle of the countryside. Matt remembers Javier at the farm, a bit rough on the edges but gentle and caring and he remembers that odd moment when the girls were taking Foggy to the car, the parents out and the younger girls out in the yard, the silent wife in her bed. He remembers Javier floating around him, inspecting him. Matt played the blind card up, but he heard the anticipation in Javier’s heart, felt the level of attraction in the married man’s eyes, the forbidden curiosity and Javier got too close, too warm. He’d asked, “who’s there?” to scare him away and he’d never mentioned it to anyone before, but inexplicably Matt felt tied to the source of the problem, a contribution to how the Storm girls lost their lost Father. He’d done nothing but what could he have done?

The ringing blares in his ears and he’s struck by it, how many sirens are there in the world, how many problems need resolving, that go unresolved, for years and years, or less, abruptly halted. How could Matt help? Pluck out the root cause? Dismantle the structural integrity, systemic destruction. If he said something about Javier’s approach would he still be alive today? Or would the Storm family be broken apart? At this point, he doesn’t know enough, isn’t equipped to help, to fix all, to help Foggy to the best of his ability. But he does know that some things can’t be fixed immediately, they need time and expertise and that’s why he’s at university right? To learn and become certified, to legally help people, that’s what he’s been training to do. Or should he train in other ways, in the gym, through his meditation. The sirens scream in his ears and he’s got to face it, he’s always been better at fighting. In the physical sense. It’s in his blood. Who’s to say he can’t do both? To train himself in both ways, to be competent in both, able to help in more ways than one. He might not be able to do much for Foggy now but in time, with dedication, with practise, he’ll encounter no obstacles. He’ll learn of the wrong doing and he’ll know what to do about it, be able to do the right thing, say the right words. The balance of brute force and intellectual thought. Through the cacophony of sirens and screams and alarms, all ringing around his head, a merry-go-round of fear and pain, cyclical in nature, he’ll be able to help. That’s all he’s ever wanted to do, to take care of his city, to help people. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an alien army hits new york and Matt can't just sit around and do nothing about it // An old friend needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry that these chapters are coming out so spaced out. I'm having a bit of writer's block on this one...)

**2012.**

**[Video// Disappearance.]**

Foggy stands behind the couch beside Matt, about half of the students on their level crammed into the small communal living space. Students sit on top of each other on the couch, spilling over onto the floor, and everyone’s eyes are glued to the TV screen. There’s a tear in the universe and an alien army is spilling into New York. It doesn’t seem real. Someone changes the channel but it’s the same broadcast on every channel, news flash, the media’s covering every angle.

Foggy glances over at Matt, he’s heard the broadcast and he’s gripping the edge of the couch like his life depends on it. His face crumpled, lips tight, jaw clenched. Foggy gets it. If these so called Avengers don’t find a way to save New York then it will be the rest of the world next. And yet somehow, looking at what’s been televised it still doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t seem plausible that the God of Thunder is up there fighting his brother’s army. It should be impossible.

The interviewer on the current channel turns to discussing the damages made to civilian’s homes and that’s when Matt kicks off the couch, letting out an exasperated cry. He storms down the hall towards their dorm room and Foggy catches him at the doorway.

“Let me go,” Matt says, shaking off Foggy’s hold.

He marches into their room and grabs his backpack, dumping out the items onto his desk.

“What are you doing?” Foggy questions, watching how erratic Matt’s become.

“You couldn’t hear it Foggy,” Matt begins, “the uncontrollable suffering, overwhelming sadness. I can’t take it, I can’t stay cooped up in here when I could be doing something about it.”

Foggy puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder but Matt flinches away. Foggy’s voice cracks as he speaks, “do what?”

Matt searches through the pile of objects on his desk for his wallet and slips it into his pocket, then goes over to his dresser to pull out a jacket, “anything. There are people out there Foggy, just average people in their homes, or at work, or stuck in between and they need help. The superheroes are saving the world, but who’s saving the people?”

“Matt,” Foggy starts, trying to remain firm, “you’re _not_ a superhero. And you’re not the police either. Just let the people who know what they’re doing do their jobs.”

Matt shakes his head as he pulls on a leather jacket, “you don’t get it Foggy.”

“No, I do get it Matt. You want to do something about it? Fine, but you’re not seriously thinking of going into that mess are you? You’re just a guy, a law student, one year to graduation! We’re the little guys, let the people in power deal with the big problems and we can do what we can _when we’re able to_.”

Matt kicks his desk chair, it swivels in the air and crashed on the floorboards. “Ugh, I’m sick of hearing that. _Not being ready_. We _are_ ready. We’ve put these limitations on ourselves and what are you doing to overcome that huh? You’re barely scraping passes and you might not even graduate with me. But that doesn’t mean you won’t be a good lawyer. You know your stuff and what’s a law degree going to do?”

“Um, certification?”

“What’s certification without experience? That’s what I’m saying Foggy, we’ve got to go out there and do something, make some real change, save someone’s life!”

“Matt, listen to me! It’s not a good idea to jump straight into the deep end! What are you going to do out there? Exchange numbers with a few hundreds to millions of potential clients and hope they call you to sue Tony Stark?”

Matt zips up his jacket, “I’m not going to play it safe this time. I’m not going to just sit around and wait for it all to be over.”

Foggy claws at his scalp, “this is bullshit Matt. You’re not even going to be able to get in. It’s going to be blocked off, think about it! All we _can_ do is wait it out. Maybe donate to a few charities.”

“I can’t wait Foggy. There are people out there whose cries for help are going unheard. I have to do something,” Matt says firmly.

He makes for the door but Foggy steps in front of him, trying to catch his hand, “are you seriously fucking doing this?”

“I have to,” Matt says, and he pushes passed Foggy.

 

He’s been gone for days. The hole in the sky’s closed up but New York will never be the same. The richer parts will rebuild first. Architects will put in their pitches for high-rises, sustainable buildings they’ll say, _green_ buildings, affordable only by the wealthy. It’ll take years, but the gentrification dealt by the disaster will take decades to repair, unless the wealthy decide to prey on the land for their own devices, it’s inevitable he supposes.

“Oh, oh I found one!” Marci says, sitting up, her laptop slipping to her mattress. She turns the screen to Foggy to show him the online news article, “okay, this one says… man saves old woman from burning car wreckage. That sounds like something Matt _could_ do, maybe?”

“No that’s not right. The title’s got to say ‘blind’, it’s a distinguishing factor. _Blind_ man saves old woman...” Foggy says, his voice breaking, “dies in the process because he can’t fucking see.”

 

It’s been a week without Matt. Zero contact. At this point, Foggy’s over being furious and starts to feel offended that Matt accused him of being a bad student when he’s the one who’s missing a week’s worth of class. After his last class of the day, Foggy does his rounds of _Where in the World is Matt Murdock_. He checks his emails, checks the online news, checks the missing persons report he’s filed. Nothing new. Nothing significant.

He places his phone on the bedside table and lies back on Matt’s bed, drawing his pillow into his face and tries not to cry. He presses his fists against the pillow, punching himself in the face and he cries anyway, the scent of Matt lingering on his squashed nose.

“Hey loser, there’s mail for you,” Marci says at his doorway.

Foggy yanks the pillow of his face, blushing, “how did you get in here?”

“You left the door open dumbass. Who gets mail delivered to them at college anyway?” She says, rolling the letter into a cylinder and throwing it at Foggy

Foggy fails at catching the letter, scrambling over the bed until he gets it in his hands. It reads ‘addressed to Matthew Murdock’.

“It’s from a hospital up in New York City,” Marci informs him, leaning on the doorframe, “suspicious much?”

Foggy stares at the crumpled letter. The first news of Matt in seven whole days.

“You gonna open it or what?” Marci prompts. She bounces into the room, picking up the chair Matt had kicked over and sits on it next to Matt’s bed.

Foggy glances at Marci, the chair beneath her reminding him of his fight with Matt. He grips the letter in his hand, then tears it open. He reads the two paged letter once, then twice, then a few more times until he’s sure he’s read it right.

“Well what’s it say?” Marci presses, gripping the seat of the chair.

“It says… it says Matt had been admitted two days ago. They had to stitch him up…” Foggy explains, flipping over to the next page, “there’s a whole list of the medical procedures they performed on him,” he puts down the pages, “it says he left before schedule but they’re still going to bill him for the full stay.”

“Of course they will. But hey, at least you know he’s alive. Almost?”

Foggy sighs, exasperated. He throws the bill on the ground and takes Matt’s pillow into his lap, resting his chin on it, “how come I get a hospital bill but no Matt?”

 

**2015.**

**[Video// Echoes of mortality.]**

Foggy stands on Karen’s tiny balcony, leaning over the railing. He clutches a mug of badly made coffee in one hand, and pets Moondragon as she balances herself on the railing. Her sisters pour out over the tiles, tails dangling over the edge, arms stretching up the metal spokes of the railing, jealous of Moondragon’s position. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he places his mug on the tiles, his cats reeling from the bitterness. Foggy presses his back against the railing and fishes out his phone, checks the caller ID too late. The phone call ends and he stretches his arms over his head, peering over the balcony above him. Steam fumes from the open glass doors upstairs, it rolls over the edges of the balcony like early morning mist off a lake and Foggy shivers, the coolness of the morning air and the dampness of the steam chilling his body.

It’s better this way, being cold and numb, impervious to heated thoughts. His phone vibrates again and it shakes through him. He looks at the caller ID, it’s Karen, again. She’s probably calling to try to convince him to come to work, but he’s not going to go in until he knows Matt’s back. He wants to face Matt on his own terms. Matt isn’t allowed to go back to work like nothing ever happened, like he wasn’t ever gone for longer than he’d said. And by staying at Karen’s he can control how he’s going to interact with Matt. Every other time he’s just so damn relieved Matt’s back that he forgives him straight up. That won’t happen this time. Matt won’t know where he is so he’ll have to go to work, talk to Karen, then he’ll have time to prepare himself. It’s shitty that Karen has to get involved like this but Foggy’s putting the blame on Matt, if he wasn’t so secretive, Foggy wouldn’t have to be either.

His phone rings out again and dread drips off him in sheets of sweat. He should have answered that time. He should call her back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he peels himself off the rail and trudges inside, his cats weaving a path for him towards their food bowls. He tops them up, pats the jumble of furs as they purr, ploughing their mouths over the mound of cat food to try and eat the most at once. A draft pulls in from the open balcony door and Foggy crosses back to it. A squeal of squashed air sighs when he pulls the sliding door to a close, and his phone vibrates for a third time. He checks the caller ID straight away, unknown number.

Heat slices through his cold outer layer and his nervous thoughts spill out on the carpet. Could this be the news he’s been waiting for? A call from a hospital some hours away, or from the police, his one phone call? A ransom call, a confession rom a secret lover? His ears hot, his tongue heavy, he slides his finger across the screen, answers professionally, just in case.

“Hello? Franklin Nelson speaking.”

“Oh, hi. Is… is this Foggy? It’s Crystal, Crystal Storm. I don’t know if you remember me…”

Foggy slides down the glass door, rests an arm across his folded knees. Who’s he kidding to think Matt would have the audacity to call, like Matt had remembered how to be considerate.

“Yeah I remember you Crystal. Candace actually gave me your number when she told me about your Mom. My condolences…”

“It’s fine, um,” Crystal begins. There’s noise in the background, people talking over each other, “It was a long time coming you know?”

One of Crystal’s younger sisters steals the phone from Crystal and asks, “do people still call you Foggy? Snoring like a foghorn!”

Crystal takes the phone back and apologises, but Foggy laughs, “despite having surgery to fix my breathing, the name stuck!”

“It’s a cute name in my opinion.”

“Says the girl who nicknamed me.”

Crystal pauses, the background noise stifled by a closed door, “anyway. I um, I’m sorry this is how we come into contact after so many years. But I really need your help.”

“Go on,” Foggy says. A distraction will be good for him.

“Oh Foggy, it’s just been crazy,” Crystal starts, the sound of boiling water echoes in the receiver, “we knew Ma was at the end of the line. She always had been, you know, but there’d always been this medicine or this technology that could keep her going for just a bit longer. She wasn’t really alive for the last year of it, I think she was very happy to go by the end.”

“It must have been very hard,” Foggy says solemnly.

“Shelby got the brunt of it. When I moved to the city to work, Shelby became Ma’s main caretaker, and it’s shit you know, her childhood got taken away from her, both of us really, because we had to be Moms to our sisters. Anyway, your family were very good to us, helped us out a lot. I appreciate that so much, we all do. And I feel bad for having to ask for more but I really do need your help right now.”

“Get to the point then,” Foggy presses.

“It takes some explaining,” Crystal informs him, “see I was taking the girls back to live with me here in Manhattan. And you know the roads back home, they’re country roads. No lights lining the streets. Anyway, I’m driving down the main road to get on the highway and it’s dark, it’s night time and I’ve got my wits about me as you do when you drive across the country. Animals and such frequenting the road like it’s their place to be. Anyway, I’m driving down this road I’ve driven on a thousand times and I hit something. I didn’t’ notice until I got closer Foggy, it had to be an animal. It was too flat to be a cow or a stray sheep, and too big to be a stray dog. And I swerved too late because my instincts kick in you know, stray animals have no place on the road. And so I swerve too late and I still hit the thing.

“It makes me sick to my stomach to remember it. Jamie’s looking out the back window and she won’t stop screaming. I pull over and tell the girls to stay in the car. And Foggy, Christ Almighty, there’s so much blood. I was wrong, it ain’t no animal. It’s some scrawny guy. I remember crouching beside him to hear if he’s still breathing and the brake lights from my car shine right in my face, this horrible alarming red and I call the ambulance even though I know there’s no point. They’re not gonna come for at least an hour and this kid, I mean… I ran over him! He’s this thin dude and he ain’t gonna survive being squashed by my four wheeler.”

“Did you perform CPR?”

“CPR, what? Did you fucking hear me, I was in my _four wheeler_ , my sisters piled in. I ran over his fucking head! He was still breathing yeah, if that’s what you’re asking, but not for long. The guy’s blood is everywhere. Even if I pressed my lips against his broken mouth I wouldn’t have been able to bring him back. I went back to my car and we waited for the ambulance to come. We waited an hour and a half, the sun was rising, I could see the dark patches on the road in the mirror.”

“It wasn’t your fault Crystal, I know that road. It’s a winding stretch and that guy had no reason to be out that late. What the hell was he doing sleeping on the road or something?”

“The papers say he was out drinking at the pub and had tried to walk home. Got pretty close too. You guessed who it is yet? The only family with big enough money to live close to the highway?”

“No way,” Foggy hisses.

Crystal hums sadly, “yup. Roger Hanson’s son. Roger fucking Hanson’s son. And he wants me dead Foggy. You better not miss _my_ funeral.”

“Fuck. This is bad. I’m glad you’ve called me, I’ll be happy to represent you.”

“I don’t have any money…”

“Money doesn’t matter. This is a family situation. With me as your attorney, you’re going to be fine!”

“And Matt too, right?”

Foggy leans his head against the glass door, a jet shoots across the sky, the chemtrails dividing up the sky.

Crystal waits and when Foggy doesn’t say anything, she rambles, “your receptionist seems nice, but how are you going to expect to get any real clients when you don’t answer your phone on the first go?”

“Oh, that’s why Karen called me.”

“Lucky I know you Foggy. Third time’s the charm with you… Karen uh, she said that you’re both out. Are you and Matt on holiday, or taking sick leave?”

Foggy sighs, “something like that. Look, I think we should meet to talk about your case more in depth.”

“Let’s make it soon, Mr. Hanson’s ready to bury me alive!”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgive // Forget

**2012.**

**[Audio// Reappearance.]**

As he closes the door of the hallway cutting off the stairwell, a gust of wind sweeps under his hospital robe. Matt feels the fabric billowing and he’s sure that any eyes on him are going to see his ass in full sight. He catches the flaps of his robe and bunches them together behind him, dashing down the hall of his dormitory. Heartbeats flicker in the sea of noise as he darts toward his room, wolf whistles rise to the surface, his cheeks flare. He gets to his dorm room and pauses briefly, blocking out the whooping from behind him. Focusing his hearing he listens for particular heartbeats. In his room there’s nothing. A total absence of life. In rooms down the hall heartbeats match to their occupants, or visiting friends. But not one is the most familiar throb in his radial sphere. Somehow he’s thankful, he’s not quite ready to face Foggy yet.

He puts his hand on the handle of his door and it opens, unlocked. He heads straight to his dresser and strips off the robe. He pulls on a sweater and jeans and he bunches up the robe in his hands, the sweat and blood a potent smell. He goes over to his desk, chucks the bunched up robe in his paper bin and grips the edge of the desk. He breathes hard. He gets this feeling like he’s just come off an escalator. He’s been moving so fast for days on end, never stopping. And suddenly he’s off the escalator and he’s expected to walk around like a normal person, go back to the normal speed of things. He’d spent two nights trying to navigate his way through New York back to Columbia University. It was lonely and cold and the roars of the pain of the city never died, always clawing at his back, calling for him. He could do more, give more, flesh out his insides, turn himself inside out. He could have done it but he hadn’t been good enough. Hadn’t been keeping up with his training well enough for this opportunity. He’d squandered it and paid the price with flesh and blood.

He collapses on his desk chair, the plastic cold with the memory of anger, the thunder of frustration burnt into it. The emptiness of the room presses in on him, his skin itches, irritated by the wool of his sweater. He’s back but he can’t sit still, he’s done what he can but he can’t stop now. There were some people he couldn’t reach, some people he was incapable of helping. He’d returned because he could give and give and give until he can’t give anymore but he was going to die, an inferno around him, burning his hopes his dreams, their hopes and dreams. The city crumbling around him, the cries of the helpless luring him into an impossible mess. The longer he spent there the worse he felt, the heavier the pain of the city, the quicker it drained him.

Matt’s drawn out of his thoughts when his radar picks up on Foggy’s heart signature, flashing beside Marci’s. He tracks them as they both go into Marci’s room and he grips his desk chair. The flash of anger swells out of the plastic and he tries to breathe, tries to stay calm. He tried his best, didn’t he? And now he’s back, he’s expected to fall back into his normal patterns of life right? But he’s starting to wonder about the point of it all. What is his life here but preparation for the future? Studying to become a practicing lawyer, training to become a hero? He’ll train himself, work on his mind, his body. Go back to meditating like Stick told him to, the proper way. Helps with focus, with healing too. And when the time comes, when the opportunity arises, nothing will be able to stop him. He will succeed. All these years trying not to become what his father didn’t want him to become…

The door to his room slams open, the wood crashing against the plaster walls and Foggy shouts “What the fuck?!”

Matt swallows, his heart beating in his throat. He will succeed, just keep it all together. He reads Foggy panting in the doorway, fuming, his heart racing. Matt sees himself in Foggy, this anger swollen inside him, ready to fight. Matt had taken that energy, done what he could with it. He couldn’t do much, in a way, Foggy was right. He’d failed.

“Hey,” Matt chokes out, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater.

Foggy snorts breath sharply through his nose and he firmly says, “No Matt. No. You… why does it take a picture of your ass to circulate around college for me to know that you’re back?”

Matt bites his lip, “that was fast.”

“And you didn’t think to come find me?”

“I literally just got back. Plus I had to change. Or did you really want me running around campus with only a hospital robe on.”

Foggy runs his fingers through his hair, an anxious habit, “well, obviously. At least I would know that I’m your top priority.”

Matt chuckles, folding his clasped hands between his legs, “you are my top priority.”

“Am I though?” Foggy questions. There’s a flicker of breathing change in Foggy and don’t think for a second Matt didn’t notice it. He steps out of the doorway, his muscles tense, he clenches his fists, “Matt ugh, you don’t really get to do this. You don’t get to sweet talk your way out of this.”

Matt stands up, pushing the plastic desk chair away from him. Foggy’s white heat and speckled noise and maybe it was a lie, maybe it wasn’t. But there’s something about being with Foggy, he grounds him, makes him see the truth. He could have done better and Foggy was right, it wasn’t the right time.

“Matt, fuck. You have to promise me you’ll never run off again. I thought… I thought you’d died,” Foggy winces, his lips contorting as he speaks, his words coming out garbled.

Matt takes another step forward, the white heat melding into blue, to red, colours he knows exists but can feel rather than see, the electricity between them. “I’m alive.”

Foggy chokes back a teary scoff, “obviously. But you can’t do this again okay? I can’t take the worry, not knowing when you’ll be back… if…”

Matt cuts the distance and he curls his arms around Foggy. At first he’s stiff, a momentary statue. Seconds later he melds into him and Matt rests his chin on Foggy’s shoulder, lets Foggy paw his back. And he lets himself feel what Foggy feels, lets himself know the kind of damage he dealt. Foggy’s muscles and bones tell him truths, the way his teeth clench and shoulders hunch and his arms sag and legs sway like he’s lost balance. Matt had a taste of two worlds, tipped the balance and one outweighed the other. Foggy spills and it’s worse than the helplessness of the city. It’s worse than the sirens screaming through the streets. It’s worse because he did this to Foggy.

“I messed up,” Matt says and he holds onto Foggy, the lives of lost ones dissipate against this life, importance once looked over.

“I messed up,” Matt repeats because it’s not enough, the devastation he left. He tried to fix the ruin left by the Avengers but left ruin in his home, ignored the pain and suffering of a loved one in favour of strangers.

Foggy stands straight, sniffling, looking at Matt. He feels Foggy’s hands on his face, on the light scars and cuts and bruises over his skin and he should have listened to Foggy, he says this, and he says it again, “I should have listened to you.”

Foggy nods, knowing, and Matt’s a broken record for Foggy, repetition of words, just to make sure they’re heard, to make sure they’re known.

He wasn’t ready.

“I love you, I love you.”

If he was ready he could do both. Save people, love Foggy.

“Don’t do this to me.”

He feels Foggy’s fingers over his skin and he soaks in the data, the taste of onions and pasta, remnants from lunch, the smell of his unwashed hair, the way he breathes around his clothes, a quiet stretch of cotton and threads. Matt smiles and he catches Foggy’s finger on his lips, his skin splits, blood prickling into his mouth.

Foggy clears his throat, “I’m trying to stay mad at you, it’s not really working.”

Matt sucks on his lip.

“I think I’m too happy you’re back in one piece. Sort of,” Foggy says, rolling up Matt’s sleeves, “what happened to you? The hospital bill…”

Matt winces, pushing his sleeves back down, the lie burgeoning in his throat, “it’s nothing. I just got hit by a car.”

 

**2015.**

**[Video// A.M. P.M.]**

“Thanks for dropping me off Karen,” Foggy says as he gets out of her car.

“It’s really no problem Foggy. You sure you don’t want me coming in with you? It’ll be no trouble on my part,” Karen persists, turning off the engine.

“No, it’s fine. You’ve got to make arrangements with Mr. Hanson’s lawyers, I’ll call a taxi home,” he sees Karen about to protest and interjects, “really, I’ll be fine. Thanks for your help.”

Foggy closes the passenger seat door and waves as Karen slowly pulls away, merging into the busy traffic. He turns back to the apartment, his keys weights in his pocket. He pulls at the collar of his coat and gets a move on toward the lobby. He takes the stairs, each echo of his step another injection of dread into him. At the door to his – to Matt’s – apartment, he’s struck by the quiet. For a moment he forgets he’d taken the cats away, that they’re not inside complaining at the front door when they hear him arrive home. Beyond that he remembers the first time entering their new home, backpacks full of clothes on their backs, holding hands as they key through. That first time the air was hot, all windows closed off, ventilation left to the tiny gaps in the brickwork. That first time they held hands as they walked down the hallway, Matt had his spare on the wall, feeling it as they went and it was dark, it’s always been dark in this stupid apartment. Built too close to another sky rise, covered in ads.

The hallway breaks off into an open plan living area. Back then it was empty. All Foggy could see was the steel and the glass of the building opposite, blocking out the natural light and filtering in the neon. He remembers that first day, the neon painted the place in blues and pinks and he saw it touching Matt’s skin, an overlay over his eyes and he’d kissed Matt there in the open living room. They’d kissed and he’d felt the blood pulsing beneath Matt’s skin. He’d pushed Matt up on the brick wall, a large metal door to a cupboard clanging, empty. They’d laughed, dropped their bags to the ground and they’d declared they would christen the place. Their first fuck in their new home.

The door to the rooftop clangs against the frame. It’s cold and the wind roars down the staircase, a storm brewing in the skies. He turns from the hall to the kitchen and he powers forward. He’s just got to grab a couple of plastic bags out of the cupboard beneath the sink, throw a few essentials in. A couple days’ worth of changes of clothes, maybe a book, though he doubts he’ll get around to reading it. He stands up, his knees cracking. Stretching he watches the yellow light filter through the dirty glass windows. The beer colour changes to blue as the ad pixelates into a new one.

A draft pulls in and he shivers, shaking off this weird feeling he gets. He tucks the plastic bags into his pockets and places his hands on the marble. He remembers pushing Matt up on the counter, spreading his legs, and he’d bit Matt’s neck, not hard, but enough to leave a mark. At the start Matt never wore a shirt around the house. At the start, Foggy thought he showed off on purpose. He’d run his hands over Matt’s muscles, he’d flip Matt over, watch as his arms flexed over the marble, as his ass spread wide, his legs clenching, buckling against Foggy as he fucked his partner. Matt had clawed across the counter, skin sticking to slick marble and he’d call out for Foggy, he’d curse and rile and he’d try to last the longest, try to stretch it out, make it seem like forever.

A gasp escapes Foggy’s mouth and he’s got to make it quick, in and out. Don’t want to hang around too much, get attached to his home… his ex-home. He rounds the counter and he hears a noise that sounds like a moan, a hoarse call from history breaking through to reality. He freezes, his heart dropping to his stomach, rolling in sickness. He grips the counter, cold, and breathes, “is someone there?”

He’d honestly not expected Matt to come back. At least not yet. Maybe it’s a robber, a squatter even. He drags himself along with his hands, sliding himself along the floorboards. He hears the moan again and it sends a shiver down his spine. It’s familiar as fuck and his legs won’t fucking move and he grabs onto the kitchen table, wobbling with the wood. He hears histories resurface, rain pattering on the window panes. Quiet breakfasts, sleepy Matt with his hair a mess and his words incoherent. Colourful dinners served by his chef of a boyfriend, presentation wasn’t ever his thing. Only the flavours, the feelings evoked when Foggy tasted the dishes. Loud lunches, feverish feasts, mouthfuls of Matt’s come and the way Matt used to talk with him, share with him, before estranged exchanges became resonant in their recent history.

Another hoarse moan jerks him back to reality and he can smell it now. He thought the rust smell was travelling with the wind from the open rooftop door but as he pulls himself toward the couch, dragging himself along with all the strength in his arms, he slides around their couch. His couch. He’s trying to remain firm okay, slip ups happen. And he sees him on the floor, a familiar figure lying totally wrecked on the rug. And it’s not what he’s expecting at all.

 

“Don’t tell me you got hit by a car. Don’t tell me everything we had was a lie.”

“I knew that if I, agh,” Matt says, wincing at the pain from his wounds, “that if I told you, you would have tried to stop me…”

“Fuck yeah I would have stopped you.”

 

_Maybe it isn’t only about justice. Maybe it’s about you having an excuse to hit someone. Maybe you just can’t stop yourself._

_I don’t want to stop._

_You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this up. You know that right?_

_I can take care of myself._

_What about the rest of us._

_This city needs me in that mask Foggy._

_Maybe you’re right. Maybe it does. But I don’t._

_I wouldn’t have kept this from you Matt._

_You don’t know that. You don’t know that._

_Yeah. I do._

 

_Was anything ever real with us?_

 

Part of him wishes Matt would run after him, let his wounds bleed out. Embrace him in the rain and tell him he’s all Matt ever needed. But he knows Matt can’t. He knows he won’t.

“Karen, Karen,” he says breathlessly, “can you come get me?”

“Foggy? What is it?” Karen asks.

Rain water makes his hair stick to his face, he gets droplets in his ears and in his mouth and he tries to hold it all in, get out what only needs to be said, “It’s Matt… he’s… he’s back.”

“Oh my God, what did he say? Where was he?” Karen demands, her voice crackly over the receiver.

Foggy shakes his head, pressing his phone hard against his ear, blocking everything else out. The rain pushes on him, makes him feel heavier than he is, a rain cloud ready to storm. “I can’t… I can’t breathe Karen. Please take me home… to your place. I’m going to be sick.”

 

Foggy tries his hardest not to throw up in Karen’s car. He gets to her apartment bathroom somehow, like rainwater down a storm drain, being pushed this way and that until it can burst into its designation. He throws up in the sink but when he looks in the mirror he sees himself. He sees the red in his eyes, his hair tangled and his skin blotchy. He sinks to the ground and pulls himself over to the toilet, always reaching out with his arms, grasping for what he can grab.

Time passes in a cycle of black outs. Dozing in and out of wake, his lips on porcelain, his mouth tastes like sick. His hair oily and pressed, his fingers throbbing, blood thick and cold in his veins. Night begins to crawl over the city, the street lights shine in through Karen’s small bathroom window and Foggy lies his back on the ground, one hand on the base of the toilet for reassurance, the other under his head for comfort. He bends his knees and they shake until he presses them together.

Karen knocks on the door, “you okay in there?”

Foggy clears his throat, pushing phlegm out of the way and he grunts in response.

Karen cracks the door open, peers through, “can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

Foggy rolls away from her, curling around the toilet, “no, I’m fine.”

He feels her eyes on his back and after a moment’s pause he hears the bathroom door clicking shut. His muscles relax and he lays back on the tiles, but he shudders, crying. He wishes he could lie there forever, rot into the tiles, turn to dust and cobwebs. He doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to say a thing. He doesn’t want to talk about it but he’s going to have to tell her something. He’s not going to be able to just get up and carry on like he didn’t just cry in her bathroom for hours. She’s not going to let this go. Karen’s not going to forgive Matt.

He should probably follow suit but instead, he thinks, he’s going to have to lie.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empty // Full.

**2015.**

**[Audio// Quivering.]**

It takes him a few hours to be able to get himself off the couch. Then it was a matter of getting himself off the floor. Pain wracked his stomach, his arms, his legs. In time, the pain prickled down to a numb throb, manageable but ever-present. The house is empty, cold. Rain plummets against the windows, pools in the rooftop section upstairs. He can hear it trickle down the stairs, soak into the wood, each drip wearing on the strength of its structure. The smell of cat food is potent still but he can’t feel the heart signature of any of his cats. Of their cats. They’re gone, Foggy’s taken them away somewhere and Matt’s alone in their apartment, stiff and shaking.

 

**2015.**

**[Video// Six cats, six sisters, six years later.]**

Morning comes around and Foggy silent cleans up the bathroom for Karen so she can actually make us of it. Before she takes a shower she sits him down on her couch in her tiny living room with a mug of awful coffee. Foggy thanks her and she smiles and Foggy thinks, _Karen’s a keeper_. She closes the bathroom door behind her and Foggy just holds the mug, lets the warmth spike through him. Liz and Heather fall over his lap, their claws dull pricks through his trousers.

When she’s done in the bathroom Karen comes out with her towel wrapped around her chest and she sits next to Foggy, dragging a comb through her long hair. Tiny droplets of shower water flick onto Liz as Karen combs her hair, prompting Liz to sit up in alarm. Karen sighs before she speaks and Foggy knows what’s coming. He finally gives some sort of explanation, and they’re both pretty mad about it. He tells her he caught Matt cheating. It fits with what she already knows about their situation so it makes sense to tell that lie. But he’s infinitely more disgusted in Matt now that he’s had to lie to a good friend of his, because he shouldn’t have had to. He shouldn’t feel like he still has to maintain Matt’s façade. But he does anyway, and maybe it’s something to do with him still wanting Matt in his life.

Something to think about another day.

 

He should be at work, he should be sitting at his desk, taking calls, doing paperwork, doing research for clients instead of making his secretary do it for him. He sits on the couch, scrolling through pages and pages of rental listings. Debbie occasionally paws at the mouse on his screen, but instead of being enraptured by how cute she is, he becomes increasingly sad. The prospects of being allowed to bring six cats into a rental agreement is really not looking any good. He’s not very happy with having to lie on a legal document but he’s probably going to have to do it. That, or let go of his cats.

He watches Debbie’s ears flick flat, then moments later his phone starts to ring. He looks at the caller ID, it’s Karen.

“Foggy, are you home?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Good. Okay. I’m on my way.”

“What? Are you having the meeting here?”

“No, I’ve already had the meeting,” she says swiftly, “But look Foggy, they’re in trouble…”

“Yeah the case is a real doozy, we’ll get Crystal through it though.”

“Foggy,” Karen sounds frustrated, “listen, they’re in trouble. Somehow he found out where Crystal lives and he’s threatened her. A death threat Foggy. Hanson sent a freaking _minion_ in or something to kill Crystal.”

There’s a muffling noise and Karen’s voice changes to Crystal’s, “look Foggy, I only have to stay with you for a little while okay, just until this thing dies down. I just can’t let my sisters stay with me in that house, it’s not safe.”

“Wait, what makes you think our place will be any safer? Hanson could track you down again,” Foggy points out.

The muffling noise occurs again and Karen’s voice returns, “Foggy, I’m not letting them stay in a house that makes them feel unsafe. I _know_ what that feels like. Besides, ever since the guy in the mask saved me in my apartment I’ve always had this sense of security, like he’s watching over me, or something. That’s probably corny but-“

“-But it’s so cool!” Crystal interjects, “I still can’t believe you’ve met the guy in the mask!”

 

He feels his throat tighten, his knuckles lock and he sinks into the couch, his bones becoming weightless, his skin a sea of jelly. He’d forgotten that the masked guy… the Matt… had saved Karen’s life that one time. He feels sick to his stomach. He thought he’d been clever hiding away from Matt, that Matt probably didn’t know where he was. Giving Matt a taste of his own medicine. Then again, how could he have known Matt was the guy in the mask? Foggy blinks furiously, biting his lip, he should have known. Maybe he kind of suspected it but he never faced it. What kind of monster would keep such a big secret from their loved ones?

He’s not really paying attention to the outside world, so when the front door swings open and noise bursts in, he jumps. Karen leads the way inside, the Storm sisters spilling out behind her, a commotion of noise and rustling of bags and shuffling of shoes off feet. Foggy pats his hair down in an effort to tidy it up a bit and he pushes himself off the couch. He flattens his shirt too, it’s technically now his pyjamas since he’s been wearing the same clothes for three days straight but to a stranger his getup _could_ look like intentional messy street style, like Foggy was ever one for fashion.

He rounds the small coffee table and he sees Crystal marching toward him, her arms spread wide. They embrace and Crystal’s warm and heartfelt and Foggy’s a tattered sack of anxiety and guilt. He knew Crystal had moved into the city three years ago but he’d been too busy with his own life to give her a thought. Studying and graduating and working an intense internship and setting up his own business, with Matt…

Crystal touches his face, runs her thumb gently over his eye bags and says with pursed lips, “Now I get why you sent your secretary to meet with me in your place, you look absolutely horrendous.”

She laughs and steps back, and Foggy nods, replying with “polite as always, Crystal.”

Crystal winks, stretching her arms over her head as she scans the room. Shelby and Riley help Karen organise the groceries in the kitchen and Crystal’s three youngest sisters crawl around on the floor playing with Foggy’s cats. Foggy leaves Crystal to analyse the apartment and he slinks into the kitchen, pulls Karen aside.

They pause beside the refrigerator, leaving the girls to arrange the ingredients for lunch on the counter. Karen flips her hair over her shoulder, frowning as Foggy questions her, “are you sure about this? The Storm girls can be a lot to handle, and you’re already harbouring me and my cats.”

“It’s fine, really,” Karen shrugs, “it’s only temporary anyway. Just until we can sort out their case.”

Foggy scans her face, she looks sincere through her flushed cheeks, furrowed brow. He says quietly, “if you need some time to yourself don’t be afraid to ask.”

Karen hesitates, then nods as she pulls the door of the fridge open, “thanks for your concern but I’ll be fine. I want to do this for them, and for you.”

Foggy blinks, “for me?”

She tucks a portion of her hair behind her ear, her other hand on the fridge door, “yeah, I mean, they’re your family friends, they’re important to you.”

“I barely talk to them anymore,” Foggy says meekly.

Karen perseveres, “ _you’re_ important to them. And I think it will be good for you to get invested in a case. Even if it means literally safeguarding them from harm’s way. Look, you can’t just sit on my couch all day and do nothing, I need my old busy, focused Foggy back. We’ve got a good case and yeah it’s not paying but that’s not the point, it’s the work, isn’t it? You’ve got to forget Matt, get up, and get involved in something.”

“That’s some pep talk Karen,” Foggy says.

Karen straightens, a short laugh escaping her, “I’m trying to help you Foggy, I’m doing my best.”

“I know, thank you.”

Karen rubs his shoulder and smiles, “hang in there. Now, I need to get back to lunch We’re having burritos.”

“That’ll be messy,” Foggy muses.

Karen rolls her eyes and smiles. Foggy goes to say something but she holds up her finger, “don’t even suggest helping. Sit down with Crystal, put your feet up, we’ll take care of the rest.”

She gathers what she needs from the fridge and returns to her kitchen aids. Dejected, Foggy slinks back into the lounge room and claims the couch. He watches the younger girls crawl around on the floor, Karen’s decorations on bookshelves and artwork hanging on nails wobble from the sudden movements the girls make.  His cats’ meows and the chatter from the girls coalesce into a sort of familiar song, a calamity of noise he knew from his time in the country. There’s an abundance of feline scents and food smells and of people’s hair and clothing and swept up dust and he sinks further into the couch, viewing it all. Objects move beyond his periphery, a distortion in the visual weave, a blur in the apartment, a shift of darting bodies, of scampering cats. In the commotion of white noise, television blues, he finds himself helping to set up the table for lunch and he thinks about the memorable lunch six years ago. The table flickers like a double exposure photograph, a melted memory, the Storm girls piled around the long table for lunch. He thinks about the Crystal he’d last seen six years ago, long hair matted like his, always dirty and covered in mud or grass, food remnants on her face but she used to shout so loud, play so rough and she’d speak her mind, unabashedly honest. And yeah, six years might have passed, three years of close proximity and no contact made, but they lie when they say time changes people. Yeah she looks older and yeah her hair’s shorter but she’s still brash and rude as they catch up with each other, she’s still straightforward and courageous and it’s no surprise when she says she fought with Karen on staying with them.

“… but you know what Foggy,” Crystal continues with half a burrito in the side of her mouth, “your girl Karen here is the most stubborn lady I’ve ever met.”

Foggy rips off a portion of his uneaten taco and nibbles on it, “she’s not my _girl_ , she’s my secretary.”

“And _friend_ ,” Karen corrects.

Foggy smiles and picks up his burrito then puts it back down on the plate again. He feels eyes on him and he cringes when Crystal speaks, her tongue as sharp as ever.

“Oh, _secretary_ , sure. Is that how Matt’s out of the picture now?” Crystal says.

Karen glances at Crystal briefly, then holds Foggy’s eyes.

“What? Nobody’s said a single thing about Matt. Where is the handsome duck?” Crystal presses.

Karen’s eyes are lasers and they burn his eyes, he squeezes them shut and nods and he lets Karen speak for him. She retells his lies and it’s heated and Karen’s anger bleeds to her cheeks, wreaks her gentle hands, tenses her shoulders. The disgust transfers to Crystal, and to her sisters old enough to understand. Foggy feels sick. He’s inadvertently turning people against his best friend, against his… his ex.

“You know what,” Foggy pipes up, “can we go back to not talking about Matt again please?”

Karen composes herself, waving her hands in front of her face, “right, sorry, I’m being insensitive.”

“ _Matt’s_ the one who’s being insensitive,” Crystal declares, standing up from the table to collect the plates. Karen sends her a look and she back tracks, “sorry, not talking about him. But if I can’t dig through that gossip mountain, Karen, you _must_ tell us more about your encounter with the man in the mask!”

The girls giggle and Foggy’s skin crawls and he feels like he’s going to throw up. He pushes his chair back across the lino floor and grips the table, holding his head between his arms, emergency position. He hears the girls chatter around him, plates clattering and mouths gossiping about recent sightings of the masked guy and he closes his eyes and he sees Matt on the floor, thunder clapping, splashed in yellow light but it’s not enough to drown out the red. It shines over him, gleaming, like the blood he shed and the bruises he leaves to purple and brown over his skin, are his medals, his rewards for doing what he does. He sees Matt grimace, his eyes hidden but Foggy doesn’t have to see the way Matt’s face muscles contort to see that the grimace isn’t out of remorse, it’s pure content, mission achieved.

The neon lights slicing through shadows cut to the plain shadow cast by Karen’s table and his attention is drawn to their conversation when they mention his name.

“… and Foggy, you’d probably agree with me on this one, but gosh did he have a nice ass!” Karen says, giggling.

He glances at Karen and the rage she unleashed just before finally finds its way to him and he kicks off the chair, rage red and hot in his blood, burning as deep and red as the blood covered Matt on their apartment floor. He makes for the door and the steam whistles in his ears, cartoon style, blocking out anything and everything but anger, but ferocity. He marches down the stairs and out to the streets and _fuck_ , he’s had enough of this shit.

He walks through the fiery pits of Hell’s Kitchen, the autumn air chilling him to numbness. The sun begins to set, the buildings a fiery gold against the dark grey clouds. It’s kind of ominous, the sun’s behind him but a storm is brewing in the skies, shrouding in around the towering steel, the glass reflecting the warmth of the sun. Matt’s violence stricken face melts away and the image he sees is maybe the honeymoon version, smiling and making quips of honesty, toothy grins and fluffy hair and clear, unmarred skin. And maybe back then, he’s thought Matt was Mr. Perfect, that he had his own things going on in his life was totally okay. And Foggy had blindly accepted Matt had a secret obsession with going to the gym for a long time, presumably. But being a vigilante? A life threatening _… hobby_?! It’s stupid and it’s fucking disgusting, he’s disgusted with himself, now that he knows the truth. It’s not okay. But it’s okay to be mad. He has to stay firm with himself on this one, it’s okay to be unforgiving.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get on with it (Foggy's got more important things to worry about) // Get up (Matt tries to find Foggy)

**2015.**

**[Video// Loading…66.6%.]**

He returns and the apartment is full of concern and worry and he assures them he’s alright, he just needed some air. Needed some time to decide that he’s done moping, done thinking of only himself, of his own issues. He dilutes the importance of his own issues in favour of others, but he lets himself stay mad, lets that ferocity fuel him on so he can get shit done. Because at this stage it shouldn’t be about him anymore. Karen’s been kind enough to help more than he should and he owes it to her, and owes it to the Storm girls to get on with the case. After all, if anything, they deserve a hasty end to this fiasco after years and years of an extended death of their Mother. An overly complicated extension of a court case would just be another burden, another distant date to worry about.

His life becomes a flurry of people and paper and phone calls. Of sitting on comfy couches to metal chairs, quiet assembly and solemn speeches, an exchange of heated words, of accusations, of threats, of reasoned rebuttal. There’s the silent contemplation of the deciding jury, the hush of the audience – family members, friends and the media. There’s hushed propositions then the slam of a hammer, the defining blow. Karen says he was ruthless, that he did it better than he ever had with Matt. But Foggy brushes it off because in truth Matt never left him. He still can’t do it without Matt because even in his absence it’s still Matt driving him onward, it’s still Matt who’s pushing him to strive for the best possible outcome. And his ferocity is the result of Matt’s lack of drive for everything but Foggy.

He leaves the courtroom in a haze and the girls are clapping him on the shoulder, hugging him, the small ones high five and it’s because he won, he won right? The opposition was just charged up, thinking they deserved the world but they don’t, that’s not justice, that’s revenge. Crystal gets off with community service and a restraining order against Mr. Hanson. Helped that the judge was sympathetic, without that empathy the verdict could have been far worse. And honestly, Foggy’s just glad about how quickly everything got resolved. This time around he won’t lose connection, he’ll stay in touch and he won’t forget.

**2015.**

**[Audio// Absence.]**

It’s not like he’d given up. It’s not like he didn’t try to call Foggy every god damn day and it’s not like he pressed his phone to his ear every time hoping that one day that blocked deadline would change to a ring tone. Invasion of privacy was kind of the thing, or more so, manipulation of the need for privacy. And it’s not like Matt didn’t get it. He fully understands why Foggy would be hurt and it’s the whole reason he kept his secret identity hidden for so long. But he just needs to know if Foggy’s okay. If… if there’s a chance…

That night he’d tried the office. It was cold and stale and the scents of Foggy were present but starchy, a state of crusty permanence, over saturation from a well worked in office. He checked for a sign of him, plugged in his screen reader to his laptop left plugged in. Nothing incriminating. No handwritten notes left. He keeps the office under surveillance. It’s empty most of the time. Karen comes and goes.

He tries calling her. He’s so used to the deadline that he doesn’t say anything at first when she answers. She’s hesitant, confused, but she doesn’t tell him where Foggy is. Vagueness the enemy of lie detection. He thinks about calling Foggy’s family. Contemplates which family member would be more appropriate to call. It’s not an easy decision. And if that’s not where Foggy he’s going to have to decide whether he wants to go further or not. He holds his uniform in his hands in their apartment, cold and empty, his stomach churning the rich carbohydrates of takeaway noodles. What to give up, when to give up. He calls Foggy again and the city calls to him, tearing him in two.

He waits for a reasonable time and calls Ed who isn’t suspicious, a calculated choice. Matt asks him for an update and Ed’s the one to ask about Foggy, if he’s contacted Crystal yet. Matt says he doesn’t know, because he doesn’t know! He cuts it short and throws his phone on the ground, the battery pops out, grates along the cement floor of his apartment.

 

He’d been reluctant about it at first but he knew Foggy didn’t have his second phone number, and yeah, it was pretty much going against the whole privacy thing but Matt knew he had options, knew he could do something about it, so he does. And he’s so used to no one answering him that he hesitates when he answers.

“Hello this is Foggy Nelson speaking,” but it’s not Foggy, it’s a girl with a sing-song voice and she giggles as his façade shatters.

He hears Foggy’s muffled voice, “hey Jaime, don’t answer someone else’s phone…”

A split second later the call ends and the deadline resounds in his ears, the end of a lifeline. He holds the metal in his hands, startled when the single tone changes to a ring. His phone speaks Foggy’s name and he feels dizzy. Ed had played him. He hadn’t properly met Jaime, she was only four when Matt had been there after all, but he knew the name and knew what it meant. That Foggy was with his family.

 

He can’t bear to sleep in their bed. He opts to lie on the couch, the scent of his blood laces his nose, remnants of a rough fight burnt into the fibres of the couch covering. He shovels noodles into his mouth and the tapping of the chop sticks are clapping cymbals in the silence of their apartment. He misses Foggy, he misses him so much but at least he knows where Foggy is now.

He’d wanted to run the whole way. The windy roads the bus took made him sick, and this time he didn’t have Foggy to help him through it. He’d suffered on his own but once he was off the bus he ran. He ran over asphalt, he ran over stones and dirt and stumbled over twigs and leapt over wire fences and he’d gotten there, sweating up a river and it felt off. There was this mood about the place, this quiet diligence to do work, nothing more.

He’d skirted the perimeters, observed, but he couldn’t shake the fact that there were only three heartbeats. Only three. Not ten, but three. He’d sworn the Jaime that spoke on the phone was the youngest Storm girl but they’re absent. He’d hoped they were in the town and he’d waited. He could have turned up at the Nelson’s door but he needed to know the facts before he did. Evening came alone and he took to the Storm’s barn for the night, the machinery cold and quiet. He slept on dry hay, one hand on the break between old and new wood, the distant scent of a car’s engine in the history of the panelling.

Morning came, alone, and the contract workers began on schedule, their own machinery hot and humming. His stomach grumbled and his back ached but he waited for the afternoon to venture into the house, his thoughts occupied by how he was ever going to make it up to Foggy. Inside the house it felt empty, gouged out. Wind whistled through the gaps and Tresha’s room smelt like a hospital. He’d stepped back, his feet heavy and he knew he wasn’t going to find Foggy there. He wasn’t going to find anyone there.

 

Hopeless, a death wish in mind, he runs home. Three little pigs and the big bad wolf, except he’s the wolf and the three little pigs don’t know he’s even there. He runs until he gets to the highway and it starts to rain and the screeching of tires across the asphalt are high pitched screams in his tired ears. He slows and he wraps his arms around him as he trudges down the highway, cars and trucks splashing water over him and it’s kind of refreshing, each splash a wake-up call. _You got yourself here_ , he reminds himself.

He’s tired and hungry and drenched to the bone and it’s not the first driver who’s tried to help him out, but at this point he’s knows he’ll collapse if he doesn’t accept a ride now. The guy doesn’t have anything like a blanket but he gives Matt his jacket and pumps up the hot air and they hit the drive thru on the highway outside Manhattan. And even though Matt pushes himself too far he always makes it, somehow. He gets revitalised and parts way with the driver on the outskirts of his city, even though the guy’s going the same way as him. He’s got to run again, get his legs moving, get his blood pumping again. It helps him think straight when he’s calculating every move.

He runs home, all the way home. But it’s just for his phone, a slight detour on his way to Karen’s. He stands on her street and trembles, the world spinning around him in a cyclone of messed up senses because everything’s coming crashing down on him now that he’s slowed down. Smells confuse with tastes and sounds confuse with touch and he leans on the brick wall, lungs heaving and feet pounding and he feels like he’s on an escalator, perpetual motion sickness.

He locates Karen’s buzzer and he hears Karen’s voice over the intercom, “I’ll open the door in a sec Crystal!”

Matt presses the speaker button and replies, “Karen, it’s Matt.”

For a moment she sounds confused, “what?” then anger spikes in her voice, “go away Matt, we don’t want you here.”

Her voice cuts off and Matt desperately tries to press the speaker button again, repeating, “wait, Karen! Wait!”

He releases his finger from the speaker and waits but the speaker’s fizzle fades quickly but the electronic door remains firmly shut. Matt slams his fist on the glass of the door, his hand throbbing, his ears ringing. There seems to be road blocks at every turn but they forget he can climb, they forget he won’t stop because there’s always something he can do. He charges down the line of apartment buildings and makes for the alleyway. He runs down it, leaps on top of the first layer of scaffolding, his heart fluttering as the thin boards between the piped frames wobble under his weight. He clambers up, the scaffolding, teetering on precariously placed boarding, swinging off the frames to reach greater heights.

Matt gets to her level and he catches his breath against the wall of the apartment block, the wind light and soft against his cheeks. Licking his dry lips he takes out his spare phone, dials Karen’s number.

As soon as she picks up he says, “it’s Matt, do you–“

“You’ve got some nerve calling me Matthew,” Karen scowls over him.

Heat swells in his throat and he wonders how much she knows. He picks up on her voice, reverberating through brick and through tin. He swallows, “do you know where Foggy is?”

Karen’s silent for a long while and in this silence he picks up on her heartbeat quavering with hesitation, “why would I tell you?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Matt offers.

Karen pauses and as he hones in on her he picks up on more of her surroundings, six small heartbeats, six larger ones, one of them unlike the other. He feels light headed but heavy at the same time, like he’s going to plummet off the thin boards, hit the ground hard. Being so close to his magnet it’s like he’s the wrong side, it’s meant to be positive/negative not negative/negative.

“Foggy will come find you when he feels ready,” Karen says quietly, then flatly, “don’t call me again Matt.”

She hangs up and he slides his back against the wall. His knees buckle and the board shakes and he’s shaking, fragile. He hears her frustration inside as she moves, tense muscles and he takes his attention to the heartbeat he knows best, beating away, content. And at least he knows for sure where Foggy is now, at least he knows he’s with friends. And at least he knows now he can still keep Foggy safe. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> //recovery//

**2015.**

**[Video// Presence.]**

The house looks bigger somehow now that there aren’t people or cats trying to take up every inch of Karen’s apartment. The Storm girls wouldn’t stay any longer. Once the case was over Crystal graciously swept her and her sisters right out of Karen’s hair. Karen wasn’t exactly happy about it, but with the restraining order taking effect Crystal assured Karen she would be fine with the law on her side. And _his_ girls? His six cats… He’d been looking for an apartment so he could also get on with independent, single life, but the prospects of being allowed to bring six cats into a rental agreement was really not looking good.

Karen had helped him take his girls to the nearest pound. It wasn’t a fun day. There was a lot of tears and he’d called his step-mom trying to convince her to take the cats which meant telling her about Matt, which meant lying to her which of course made him feel gross. But in a way, the lie was kind of close to the truth anyway. Although Matt wasn’t exactly cheating on him with another person, he’s still out with another person, an alternative identity. His life secluded, exclusive to the players Matt deems essential. As if his partner of six isn’t essential. Isn’t worthy of being in on the deal, like Foggy would get in the way. And Matt’s right, fuck yeah Foggy would have stopped him. Would have tried. But if it’s part of who Matt wanted to be he would have accepted it. He’s going to have to accept it, afraid that to keep one half would break the other. Be selfish and destroy or be selfless and embrace. Subscribe to both to not miss out.

Outside the pound he’d called Anna again but even after all that’s happened she wouldn’t take his girls, he’s the only Nelson resistant to allergies after all. Karen has second thoughts about adopting them all but it’s too much to ask of her. Legally she’s not allowed pets and her landlord is already on bad terms with her for not being able to get her blood out of the carpet.

That night he sleeps horribly, the house too quiet, his bundles of warm fur absent. He hugs his pillow and he holds his phone in his hand, the bright white glow burning his eyes. He thinks about unblocking Matt’s number so he can call him but it’s late, too late.

In the morning he gets ready to go to work with Karen. Working the case was good for him. He’d been away from work for so long he’d forgotten how much he loves the work. And there was something about having a hot shower, putting on a nice suit and slipping on his brogues that felt satisfying, like he was doing something right for once. But the top thing on his to-do list when he got to work was to call the pound, check up on his cats.

“What do you mean they’re gone?” Foggy asks, flabbergasted.

“I mean they all got adopted yesterday evening,” the receptionist informs him.

“What? How is that possible…” Foggy trails off.

“It’s very rare, never in my line of work–“

Foggy makes a strangled noise in the form of annoyance and speaks over the receptionist, “do you know who adopted my cats?”

“They’re not _your_ cats anymore, they have a new owner–“

“Describe him to me!” Foggy says impatiently.

Karen comes to his office and pushes through the door, “is everything alright?”

Foggy nods, waving a hand vaguely at her.

“I didn’t even say the new owner was a male, but yes, _he_ adopted your cats only an hour after you dropped them off.”

“Any… _specific_ description of him?”

“Well… I suppose… the first thing that comes to mind is that he was _very_ handsome. Tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Oh, and he’s blind… I think.”

“Oh my God, why didn’t you just say that first?” Foggy exclaims, hanging up his phone.

“Foggy, what’s going on?” Karen asks, folding her arms.

Foggy combs his fingers through his hair, “nothing,” he picks up his phone again and unblocks Matt, “can you close the door please?”

Karen purses her lips then nods, bowing out of the doorway. The door clicks shut and Foggy dials Matt’s number. He’s not quite sure what he’s going to say, some kind of word vomit probably, but the call doesn’t even get to ring out, a digital voice tells him the number has been disconnected.

 

**[Moondragon]**

He doesn’t tell Karen where he’s going as he flees the office, she’s probably got an inkling anyway. In the taxi he sends her a text just to let her know, feels bad about keeping her out of the loop. She tries to call him, he doesn’t pick up. He knows she’ll convince him out of investigating, it’s stupid after all. No sign of Matt for weeks then a sighting at the pound? It’s too suspicious, hence the investigating.

At the door to their apartment block he checks if it’s accessible. The security’s so low around here that the residents of the block just keep the door shut using a piece of cardboard. That way it keeps the door from swinging open at odd hours, slamming on the hinges. Foggy wiggles the cardboard out and lets the door swing and he dashes up the stairs, too impatient for the elevator. He rampages down the hallway, his feet dull echoes against the linoleum and when he gets to the apartment door, his vision flickers in spots of blue and yellow. He hangs his head, hands on his knees, catches his breath. Blood pounds in his ears and he pants and it takes him a minute to recover, to actually absorb the sound of cats meowing on the other side of the door. Somehow they always know when he’s back.

His eyes well up, tears of relief, and that’s all he wanted to know really, that his cats hadn’t been adopted by some weirdo, that they were safe. And at least here he knew where they were, even though he doubted Matt’s cat caring abilities. He was the one who looked after the cats really, he fed them, gave them water, changed the litter box. He’d have to check back later to see if they’re still breathing.

The front door opens, startling Foggy. He has this instinct to run but he doesn’t act on it, he’s waiting to see if it’s a ghost or a person.

“Foggy?” Matt breathes and Foggy coughs, tears streaming down his face.

In reality it’s only been a handful of weeks but it feels like months since he’s seen Matt, feels like they’ve been estranged, distant acquaintances meeting for the first time, except maybe they’d caught each other’s eyes in a crowd a few times. A familiar face, a familiar scent. And it’s so hard not to hug the fucker, it’s so hard not to touch his lips, run his fingers over Matt’s jaw line, down his neck, over the bruises scattering his skin. But then he sees that Matt’s wearing his socks pulled over his sweatpants and a hoodie, the V at his neck indicating he’s not wearing a shirt underneath. And seeing that exposed skin, bruises in sight… He remembers why he’s fucking pissed at this guy, why he’s been talking himself into staying mad, staying unforgiving. But seeing him, it’s so hard to stay firm. Matt’s face crinkles like Foggy’s composure and he swears he’s not talking out loud but it’s like Matt reads his mind…

“You want to punch me in the face,” Matt states.

Foggy squints, biting back tears, “I do, but that won’t fix anything.”

Heather circles Matt’s legs and sniffs the cement outside the doorway.

“Better come inside, don’t want the cats to run out,” Matt says, pushing the door wide.

He could easily say _no, no thanks_ , and walk right out of there but he doesn’t and in the small hallway of their apartment he sees his cats coming toward him and he cries again, scooping Liz up in his arms.

“Have you fed them?” Foggy asks, his voice cracking.

“Yes, I’ve fed them.”

“And given them water?” Foggy hoists Liz on his shoulder and attempts to pick up Glorianna as well.

“Yes Foggy.”

Matt reaches for him but Foggy flinches away, his cats jump out of his arms and he stands in the dark of the hallway, Matt jilted beside him.

“I’m sorry…” Matt whispers.

Foggy turns to him, sees his crumpled face, his furrowed brow. He breathes deeply and the house smells like Matt again, like it’s lived in, like Matt actually spends time here now and he presses a palm against the brick wall to his right, supporting himself as he tries not to just collapse right there.

“Are you alright?” Matt asks, and Foggy can see his hand stretching out again, hesitating.

Foggy sniffs, “no,” and he rubs his face, “no, but I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to see my girls.”

“Okay,” Matt resigns.

Foggy slips down the wall and he scoops Debbie up, her long black fur already malting over his suit. He pats her as Liz marches around his legs, meowing demands at him.

“I’m glad you kept them together,” Foggy begins, “but how did you know I was letting them go? How did you know which pound I went to?”

Matt lips tighten and he folds his arms, head cocked to the side, chin lifting because Matt knows Foggy’s got the answer to his question anyway.

Foggy closes his eyes, breathes, “am I meant to be flattered that you practically stalked me?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you do it?” Foggy sobs angrily.

“I didn’t do it much. I went to Karen’s once because I was desperate to know if you were even alive or not. I overheard you talking about–“ his voice hitches, “about looking for places to rent, and I knew our cats would be a problem. And after that it was just logic. There’s only one pound in this area… I called every day until they told me they’d call me. Foggy… they’re my cats too.”

Foggy leans his head against the wall, frowns away tears, “just make sure… make sure they get food and drink.”

Matt’s voice cracks and Foggy doesn’t dare to open his eyes, “of course Foggy.”

“And love,” he adds, “cats need attention.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

 

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.”

 

**[Milla]**

He stays away a few days even though he can feel the weight of the distance. He works, there’s too much to do. His days are long and laborious and he and Karen don’t talk much at home. Not because they’re sick of each other, just because they’re exhausted.

He doesn’t call when he shows up at Matt’s. He shouldn’t have to, he does have a key to the place what with his name on the lease and all. He brings noodles but Matt doesn’t eat much of it, says he’s sick of it, declares he’ll never eat takeaway noodles again.

They sit opposite each other, Matt lounging on the couch, Foggy on the arm chair and their cats eye the leftover noodles. They’re alive, and Matt’s alive, and Foggy’s still going. But he can see the blood stains in Matt’s grey track pants and he wonders if one day, that’ll be the closest thing he’ll have to the life of Matt Murdock. The worn out, blood strewn pants of the love of his life.

“If you have something to say, just say it,” Matt says softly.

Foggy glares at Matt, his nose flaring and he spills, “I know you don’t think I agree with what you’ve become. And you’re right, I _don’t_. I don’t think that violence is that answer. But if this is who you are, who you’ve always been, I want to know you still. I want you in my life still. Even if the reason why you kept this from me still doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“If I told you back then, you would have–“

“–Matt. This is not back then, this is now. And I’m not going to ask you to stop because I know you won’t. And that’s okay. I’m okay with it.”

Foggy sees a smile creep across Matt’s face and he’s spent so many years reading him without knowing Matt’s reading him right back. Matt can be reserved but Foggy thought he could understand him through his silent expressions. Turns out the reservedness was hiding more than he thought.

“Matt,” he sighs, rubbing his face hard, “please just… don’t keep me in the dark anymore.”

 

**[Heather]**

Foggy slides his book back in its slot in the bookshelf and he listens to the roaring traffic outside, the neon painting yellow over the living room, a faux sunrise. He’s just there to return that book he knew he’d never read. He’s there to check on the cats too, naturally. They’re fine though, Matt’s fine too. All of them asleep in bed. In their bed. Cats all piled over him locking him in place.

It feels weird being in the house without Matt knowing. Although he wonders if Matt’s fully asleep. And he wonder about how many other times Matt’s feigned sleep, how many times Matt lied to him. Was it really that much? Was he always that dishonest?

He opens the fridge and there’s nothing but milk. He makes up a bowl of muesli, honey, oats, cream and milk and leaves it in the fridge for when Matt wakes up, like he used to.

 

**[Glorianna]**

Karen doesn’t own a radio. She has a laptop. He has a laptop. But she doesn’t own a device that’s built for reading radio waves, and that’s why he’s at Matt’s, tuning in to his favourite talk show. Their favourite talk show.

Matt’s out but it’s okay. He left a note. It’s instructions for if his crime fighting goes awry. And it’s address to him. Detailed with his planned activities, who to call if he doesn’t return at his desired time.

The note says not to call but if Foggy’s not there when he’s back, he’ll call Foggy right away. Tell him all about it.

 

**[Liz]**

Foggy talks because the silence is heavy and he’s tired but eventually he’s going to have to fill Matt in on what he’s missing at work. May as well start now. He talks about the new cases and he talks about Karen and he talks about her bad coffee and how gracious she is. He talks about looking for apartments and he does so bumbling, his face a hot opposition to Matt’s paling cheeks.

“You should move back in with me.”

Foggy doesn’t say anything.

“Too soon?”

Foggy doesn’t have to say anything.

 

 

**[Debbie]**

_Just keep talking to me. Keep telling me things. Tell me your thoughts, your wishes. Tell me about your day, about your investigations. Don’t think that I don’t want to know. I want to know everything you want to tell me._

It takes a long time for Foggy to feel okay about Matt again but it happens gradually, the betrayal of trust repairing. Foggy remembers back at the start, when Matt was so honest. They’d walked through woods and he’d speak his mind, they’d stayed up late at college and Matt spilt what Foggy thought was his secrets, they’d be anywhere and Matt would tell him what he wanted. When did that change?

It doesn’t matter. It happened. Matt forgot to share and now he’s remembering.

He hoists his leg over Matt’s lap and sees Matt’s form bathed in pink light, pink splattering his skin in the form of hot flushes, heated kisses. It feels like forever since he tasted Matt’s lips and he watches the way the creases in Matt’s face fold and tighten, the way he smiles, the way his ears move slightly with a grin. Sees the way Matt’s eyebrows arch when Foggy opens his mouth wide, the way his nose twitches from certain caresses, certain teases of sensitive skin. He mightn’t have acute hearing or elevated touch but he can read Matt, he can foresee him so accurately, taking from years of history. He kisses Matt and he sees that he feels too much, takes too much in because he’s forgotten to seize it, control the passion. He only kisses Matt but that’s all it takes. He sits back to watch Matt black out momentarily, his plump lips parted, wet and shiny and he wants to kiss him forever.

And maybe he could. Maybe he could kiss Matt forever in the comfort of their living room. But at some point they have to eat, they have to sleep, they have to work and Matt has to do his own thing. And that’s okay. It’s the in between parts that Foggy gets to keep. So long as Matt keeps talking and their cats keep meowing and the city keeps needing their help, legally and, well, physically. It’ll all be alright so long as they still care for each other.

**[end.]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (so i feel like maybe the end was a little rushed but i really wanted to finish this and get on with other fics? so hopefully it works out okay for readers... also i was going to make it a sad ending but i couldn't bear to leave it anything but hopeful!)


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